


It Could Be Worse

by Moira_Darling



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Forever 1x11, Gen, I don't know tags but basically Henry tells Jo his story, Reveal, Skinny Dipper, Spoilers up to Skinny Dipper, immortality reveal, it's a long story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-06 22:27:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 22,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6772759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moira_Darling/pseuds/Moira_Darling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry accidentally reveals his secret to Jo, and tells her the story of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing - all recognisable characters, setting, themes, and so forth are proerty of their respective owners. This was made purely for amusement and I make nothing from this.
> 
> Also, my apologies now for inaccuracies in the characters. I've not seen the show in a while and am so only crossposting this, but still....

She stared at him, disbelief and comprehension warring in her eyes. He stared back, tense – a hair-breadth away from bolting. She blinked, and the spell was broken.

 

“Sorry, sorry – I'm not crazy, please believe me, I couldn't tell you..” Henry began to back away, hands raised up as if to either placate her or ward off a blow. She watched him for a few moments before cutting off his frightened babble.

 

“Henry. Shush.”

 

Obediently, his mouth snapped closed, and he stopped moving at the same time.

 

“Okay....” She frowned. “So you're immortal?”

 

He nodded.

 

“And you're over two hundred years old?”

 

He nodded again.

 

Silence took over again as she mentally reorganized all she knew of Henry. “Does anyone else know?”

 

“Only Abe now. And you.”

 

“And you can't die?”

 

He hesitated, and opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off.

 

“Or at least you can't stay dead?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Oh.” As she looked at him, feeling as though a missing piece had been given her that finally unlocked the Doctor's eccentricities, she noticed his hands were shaking. “Come on.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him back to the warmth of her car.

 

He balked and tried to pull away, opening his mouth to protest. “Please, Jo, believe me – I'm telling you the truth – I'm not crazy...”

 

“Henry!”She interrupted him again. “Calm down, you're going to hyperventilate. And I believe you.”

 

He stopped suddenly. “Really?”

 

“Yes, Henry. It makes sense. Besides,” She began pulling him back to the car and sighed in relief when he followed her willingly, “it could always be worse.”

 

“Worse?”

 

“You could always come back in a fish bowl or a sink instead of the river.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Why do you always do that?”_

 

“ _Do what, Detective?”_

 

She gently shut the door on the passenger side of her car after helping Henry in. As she walked around the front of the car to take her seat on the driver's side, she stumbled. Deciding to take a moment and think this over, she leaned back on the hood of her car, closing her eyes and breathing deeply in the cool night air.

 

“ _Risk yourself! That's not your job – you're an M.E.! You come out to the scene, pick up the body, go back to your morgue, do some tests, talk to the family – but you're not supposed to go out and put yourself in harm's way with no backup or way of protecting yourself!”_

 

“ _Risk – oh. But a civil society...”_

 

“ _No. Just, stop. Please. I don't need a lecture from the professor here, I need understanding from a mortal who apparently has no comprehension of safety.”_

 

Why did she believe him? Had anyone else said something like that, she would have calmly led them to the nearest hospital for psychiatric help – but she didn't with Henry. Perhaps it was the abrupt blurting of his statement coupled with his history of brushing off anything like this that made it so credible.

 

“ _Jo...” He shifted uneasily and glanced around. “I understand my mortality perfectly, and I assure you: I take no undue risks.”_

 

“ _No undue risks? What about that time you climbed over the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge? Or when you confronted the murderer by yourself? Or when you chased after the shop owner? How about the time you told Morris to shoot you – or when you told Hanson to for that matter? And when you kept the secret of your stalker to yourself – was that safe? Or how about that time...”_

 

“ _No, please. I'm sorry...”_

 

Although, it certainly explained a lot: his usage of dip pens, his constant well dressed appearance, his familiarity with history and extinct etiquette, his habit of carrying a valuable fob watch with him – and it's appearance on crime scenes – his extensive knowledge of death and the habits of people.... She smiled as she thought of his file and wondered if it had any relation to his secret.

 

“ _You're sorry? That's it? I'm the one who will have to live with it if you're injured or – worse – dead as a result of my inability to protect you because you ran off and put yourself in the way of danger.”_

 

“ _But that won't happen – it won't be your fault...”_

 

“ _Well, it might not technically be my fault – but it will still feel like it. And you won't be around to see the damage, or do anything about it.”_

 

She sighed. Over two hundred years old – and alone for how much of that? She hesitated to think.

 

“ _And you now assume that my death will inevitably be the outcome of whatever this inescapable, reckless blunder is?”_

 

“ _Yes! Henry, you don't do things halfheartedly – if you're in for the pint you're in for the pound.”_

 

“ _Pound?”_

 

“ _Yes. If you go to do something reckless and insane, you won't stop with injuring yourself – you'll get yourself killed.”_

 

“ _Detective. Trust me. I'll be fine.”_

 

And what had happened to him that would make him react so badly to revealing his secret? To go to such lengths to conceal it? She cringed as she remembered the deep terror in his eyes and his instinctive reaction to flee and resist.

 

“ _Hey! Don't you walk away from me! Do you care?”_

 

“ _Care for?”_

 

“ _People! Others, Henry! Do you care that your well-being affects others, and the loss of you would cause a world of harm?”_

 

“ _Detective, you over-exaggerate. I'm only an M.E. – hardly someone to be missed...”_

 

“ _What about Abe? Lucas? Me? The hundreds of other people you could help just by doing your job?”_

 

“ _Jo...”_

 

She took another deep breath and straightened up, turning back to face the car. She caught a glimpse of Henry's eyes before they dropped down, and he hunched down on himself and tensed as if expecting the worst. And in a way, she understood his reaction. Surely, at least once in his life, his was accused of insanity after his secret was discovered, and she doubted the outcome was anything near helpful.

 

“ _No. No, you do not get to say you will not be missed. You have not lost someone – you have not had a hole ripped into your life, a hole that can never be filled; you don't have memories surrounding you every single day of your life that they will never return and nothing will be the same, no matter how hard you try! So no, until you go through that yourself, you have no right to potentially put other through the same.”_

 

But surely he knew by now that they would never hurt him – they were his friends! Not everyone is inherently evil and manipulating! Even as she thought this, her mind replayed his exclamation, and his shocked realization which then faded into pure fear and defense. With this scene replaying in her mind's eye, she readied herself for a long night and walked around to her own door.

 

“ _Jo! It will never happen! Nothing will kill me! You say I'm reckless? What else may I be when there is no hope of life ever stopping – when the endless cycle of death and resurrection in water will continue? Over two hundred years of watching everything but me age and pass on, of losing friends and family and being unable to do anything to save them – this is what my life is! I can never die! I can't die, Jo – I....can't die.....Oh, no...”_

 

“ _You....What?”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....it has come to my attention that this is TERRIBLY written.
> 
> Why did anyone let me write this? It's rubbish! I mean, yes, I think that about most thing I write - but this definitely is.
> 
> And not necessarily this chapter - I like this chapter. It's the rest....


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. I'm double posting just because I've got enough other stories that I should be able to finish the required ones hopefully before I finish and this is just... Anyway. Not the point.

She slipped into the driver's seat of her car and turned the heat up as far as it would go. Beside her, Henry leaned into the heat unconsciously, even as he glanced sideways at her in resignation and fear.

 

“Hey,” she reached over to him and sighed as he flinched away. “It's okay, you're safe here.” She pulled back and buckled her seat belt. For a moment, she considered having him buckle his as well, but decided that it was the least of their problems right now – especially considering his secret.

 

As she backed the car out of the parking space and pulled onto the road, she thought about where to bring him – he was in no state to be alone that night. Finally, her mind grasped a single thought: Abe! Henry had mentioned that he knew, and they did share the same building – surely he could help her out tonight. Dialing the phone, she waited for the older man to pick up.

 

“This is Abe from Abe's Antiques, how may I help you?”

 

“Abe! It's Detective Martinez, I've got Henry – can I come over?”

 

“Oh!” She heard him bustling around in the background. “Sure! I mean, is he alright? Is there something wrong?”

 

She glanced over at where Henry was trembling before answering, “No, he's not okay. It's a long story, and I've got to go now – we'll be there soon.” She hung the phone up and tossed it on the dash. “Calm down, Henry – we'll help you.”

 

He flinched and huddled away from her, soaking in the heat of the car like a dying man.

 

Worried, she tried to ignore him and focus on getting him back to the store safely – she had to believe that Abe would be able to help.

 

Within a few minutes of careful – if fast – driving, she pulled in in front of the antique shop. She didn't see Abe, but figured he was in the kitchen fixing a drink for Henry or something. As she shut off the car, she heard Henry clear his throat quietly beside her.

 

“Detective?”

 

She turned to him while unbuckling her seat belt. “Yes, Henry?”

 

“Before we go in there, may I call Abe? He deserves to know what happened and where I am.”

 

“Oh, I already did that.” She got out of the car and walked over to the passenger side of the car and opened his door. “Come on, Henry.”

 

He nodded and got out of the car, waiting meekly for her direction and refusing to lift his eyes from the ground. Gently, she took his arm and led him up to the shop.

 

“Henry!” As they got closer, Abe opened the door and came out.

 

At the sound of the older man's voice, the Doctor's head snapped up and any blood left in his face drained away. “Abraham...”

 

As Henry stumbled, Jo struggled to hold him up. “Abe! Come help!”

 

“Oh. Right.” He hurried out and helped her get Henry into the shop. They settled him in a chair and wrapped him in a blanket that lay nearby. While Abe got Henry settled, he sent Jo into the kitchen for the hot tea.

 

When she came back, Henry was holding Abe's hand as if it was all that kept him alive and staring at the shop around him as if it wasn't real. She set the tea tray down and handed a cup to Henry. When his hands shook too badly to hold the cup, Abe steadied it for him and helped him drink. Once Henry was wrapped up and had some colour back in his face, Abe pulled Jo with him to the kitchen.

 

“What happened? He's in shock, and clearly was not expecting to see me.”

 

“We were in an argument about his lack of self-preservation. I must have said something that pushed a button, because he blurted out his secret with no prelude.”

 

“Oh.” Abe looked at her warily. “And your reaction?”

 

“I believe him – but happened that would make him so terrified?”

 

“Wait – you believe him? Just like that?” Clear disbelief soaked his voice, and he took a step back.

 

“Yes – it was just too abrupt for a joke, and he's never mentioned anything like this before and has even denounced such theories as crazy before, so I don't think he's crazy.”

 

Abe sighed in relief. “Thank goodness – does he know you believe him?”

 

“I don't know. I told him I did, and he seemed to believe me; but then he went into something like shock, and I don't know what he remembers. What happened before?”

 

“As he would say, it's a long story; and one he should tell you himself.” He waved her out of the kitchen and back into the room where Henry waited.

 

She walked into the room, tip-toeing for some subconscious reason. “Henry?”

 

He looked up at her, and carefully put the cup back on it's saucer on the tray. “Thank you, Jo, for taking me here first – it means a lot to me.” He started to stand up, but she gently pushed him back and refilled the teacup.

 

“What do you mean, 'here first'?”

 

He looked past her to where Abe stood behind her. “Before you take me to Bellevue.”

 

“What? Why would I – oh.” She sighed and knelt beside the chair so she was at eye level with the Doctor. “Henry, I believe you – I don't think you're crazy. I took you home, and I'm not going to take you to any psychiatric hospital.” On spur of the moment, she added, “Or tell anyone else your secret.”

 

His eyes snapped back to hers, and she saw desperation and faint hope in them while he searched her eyes for something. Whatever he saw reassured him, and he breathed out in relief and relaxed back into the chair.

 

“Thank you, Jo. Gramercy.”

 

She looked at Abe in confusion, and he shrugged, mouthing something about 'thanks'. Turning back to Henry, she was relieved to see that he was finally calming down, and his shaking was starting to stop. Making sure his hands were steady, she handed the filled teacup to him again. Standing up on suddenly shaking legs, she stumbled over to a nearby chair and collapsed into it. As Abe poured a cup of tea for her, she started laughing softly.

 

At the men's confused looks, she explained. “This whole thing started because you were being too reckless – and blurting out a secret like that definitely qualifies as reckless.”

 

Abe grinned, and a small smile danced across Henry's face as they agreed.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone pointed out that they drink entirely too much tea herein. I admit that they probably do. However, the only actual teaset I've used was TINY and it is completely possible to drink this much tea without having to use the facilities.
> 
> So.....suspension of disbelief or they're using a tiny set - either way....

Jo gratefully accepted the cup of tea and took a careful sip to test the heat. Smiling in thanks to Abe, she watched as he shrugged it off and disappeared back to the kitchen, leaving them alone – although she had no doubt he was still listening.

 

Wrapping her fingers around the teacup and letting the warmth seep through and warm her up to the bone, she watched Henry. Sitting across from her and staring into his cup, he finally looked as if he was comfortable in his skin again. His hands were still shaking, but he held the cup tightly to hide it.

 

Taking another sip, she then leaned forward towards the Doctor. “You okay?”

 

He looked up from his cup and met her eyes. “More so now, thank you.”

 

She nodded, relieved to see that the terror had left his eyes. Looking down into her cup, she lightly bit her lip and swirled her tea around, debating whether or not to ask him anything. Feeling someone watching her, she looked up again to see Henry watching her with an amused glint in his eyes.

 

“You wanted to ask something.”

 

“What – oh, of course. Yeah. Right.” She took another drink of her tea and straightened up, worried that this question would terrify him again, but too curious to ignore it. “Would you tell me your story? How you came to be this way, what happened along the way, who certain people are to you – things like that.”

 

“I suppose it's only fair – you deserve a better explanation than an ill planned exclamation in the midst of an argument.” He took a sip of tea. “Where to begin...”

 

“How about at the beginning?” Abe called out from the kitchen, causing Jo to laughing and Henry to smile again.

 

“Wise advice.” Seeking to delay for a moment longer, he took another drink of tea before taking a deep breath and beginning his story. “Well, I was born in 1779. I learned medicine, and became a doctor. I was a doctor, had a lovely wife, had a comfortable house – all was well. I was almost thirty-five, and was working as a ship's doctor on a slave ship – what?” He noticed her confused frown and asked.

 

“You? Working on a slave ship? Those were notorious for cruelty, filth, atrocities – how could you be a part of that?”

 

“I was there as a _doctor_ , Jo – I was there to help people. Perhaps I could have taken a stand against slavery, but that would have risked my family – and that I could not, and would not, do.”

 

Jo pursed her lips, but nodded in understanding.

 

“Thank you. Now, as I was saying, I was aboard a slave ship. One of the older men had a fever, but the captain was convinced it was cholera. Fearing an epidemic, he ordered the man be thrown overboard.” Henry fell silent, and reached over to refill his teacup.

 

Jo stared at the Doctor for a second. “And you let him?”

 

“Oh no. I almost did, but I refused to let him – so he shot me and tossed me overboard as well. That's the story of the scar on my chest.” He attempted to smile but failed. Taking advantage of her shocked silence, he continued. “I awoke later somewhere in the ocean, and was eventually picked up by a passing ship and brought back to land. News of my death had already made it back to my family, but I was able to claim it was a mistake. Communication was rather unreliable in those days...” He sighed.

 

“Did you have any children?”

 

“Hmm?” He looked up again to meet her eyes. “Oh, no. We were trying, but we didn't have a child yet.” He gave a small smile. “I wonder if we would have had a girl or a boy first...”

 

She felt her throat close up at the look of loss and sorrow on Henry's face, and she mentally blamed whatever cursed him with his long and lonely life. “So you came back?”

 

“Ah, yes. I came back, and life returned to normal for a little while. I didn't tell anyone what had happened for fear that they would think me insane. Nora, my wife, would often ask me about my scar – but I would always put her off. One...” He swallowed and took another sip of tea. “One day, I finally told her, and she said she believed me. I was relieved to have finally told someone, and that I no longer had any secrets – but the next day, she had me committed to Charring Cross Asylum for insanity. Nothing I said would convince her of the truth of my story, so I told the doctors there that I had a 'temporary lapse in judgment but was now whole again, and able to see why such a story could never be true'. The doctors said that they believed me, but that they needed to do some tests to be sure, and...” He carefully set his teacup down on the saucer before he either broke it or dropped it, and clenched his again shaking hands in the blanket covering him.

 

Jo winced,  her mind readily supplying tales of the barbaric treatments employed in asylums – and if even half of the stories were true.... “No wonder you didn't calm down when I said I believed you...”

 

“Ah, yes. That would not have been entirely believable after my life, I apologize.”

 

“No, Henry – please. You have no need to apologize, it's not your fault at all.” She leaned back in her chair and finished the rest of her tea in a single gulp, reaching out for the teapot herself to refill it. She would gladly take something stronger, but this would do for now...

 


	5. Chapter 5

Jo turned towards the windows as she heard rain begin to patter outside. Within seconds, it was a torrential downpour, converting the streets to rivers. Thankful that she wasn't trying to drive in the rain now, she turned back to Henry. “Then what happened?”

“Well, I did manage to leave the asylum – obviously. The next forty years of my life were mostly filled with learning how to protect myself and my secret. Mostly by trial and error and with varying degrees of success... I did many things, but practicing medicine was my calling and the vocation I dedicated the most time and effort to. Through the years, I continually learned more through personal experience and medical breakthroughs at the time. It was also at this time that I was called in on the Mary Kelley case to verify whether or not it was done by Jack the Ripper.” Henry paused before adding ruefully, “The butcher was busy at the time, so I was called in – oh, how flattering...” The Doctor paused to take another drink of his tea.

“Wow. Well, that explains how you owned the case notes and could reference them without reminder... When did you leave England?”

“Shortly after. I came over to New York and worked as a doctor amongst the immigrants, and got into some trouble for doing so as well. My escapades then was how I knew my way through the buildings when we were chasing the shopkeeper.”

“Ah.” She smiled. “And how you knew the history of the buildings as well.”

The Doctor smiled and inclined his head in agreement. “I left the city again, but came back soon after with a friend of mine: James Carter. We were both physicians, and good friends – men of science. The Hudson Valley Sanatorium opened during that time. Tuberculosis was a problem then, and hospitals and doctors were dedicated to studying the illness and finding a cure for it. The most common method used to attempt a cure was clear air, rest, and good food – but there were many other experimental cures coming out as well.”

Jo grinned as Henry began to list several of the more extreme cures as he slipped into his lecture-mode. Content to let him tell the story at his own pace, she listened and absorbed the history lesson until he moved on to how it related to the tale.

“James was more open to the experiments than I was. I found out why later, when another doctor told me that he was taking part in some of the experimental treatments: James had tuberculosis himself – and it didn't have a cure yet. When I found out,” Henry stopped for a moment to clear his throat. “When I found out, I did all I could to help him – but it wasn't enough, and he told me to stop. Enough was enough; and deep down, I knew it too.” He sighed. “Immortality makes one blind to the beauty of the commonplace, and the pleasure of challenge. Life isn't precious for it's length or how much its filled – it's valuable for its shortness and finite character. James was able to show that to me before he passed.”

Taking a moment from his story, Henry refilled his teacup and took a sip. “After that, there was the Great Depression, and then Hitler attempted to conquer Europe – well,” he corrected himself, “He did conquer most of Europe – we were just able to win it back from him at the end. It was during the war that I met Abigail.” he added, as if an after thought.

Hearing Henry's tacked-on addition, Abe came out of the kitchen to confront him. “Ah, ah, ah! She spent more than twenty years with you – the least you could do is spare her ten minutes of your story!”

Henry's breath caught, and he stared at Abe. 

Noticing that he had grown more and more tense throughout his story and correctly assuming that he feared her judgment on his actions and beginning to rush through his story to avoid it, she spoke up. “Hey, Henry. It's alright. I've got all night, and the rest of the weekend if I need to – take all of the time you need. I want to know all about it, and -” she broke off and grinned, stealing one of his phrases, “I'll be one of the least judgmental people you'll ever meet.”

Henry's eyes flitted from Abe's face to Jo, and the support and reassurance he saw let him relax again. Convinced that Henry would be able to take the time to tell the story properly, Abe nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen.

“So, Abigail? The lady the museum reminded you of?” Jo took a gulp of her tea and grimaced when it was cold. Pouring herself another cup, she settled back to listen.

“Yes, Abigail... She was an angel – a saint. She accepted me and my secret as I was, without judgment, and she constantly put up with my paranoia. She kept me from going overboard with my precautions, kept me grounded in the day to day life of our family – but neither did she let me hide from my condition. I promised to love her forever, but she always knew that there was something greater out there for me and told me that my gifts and experiences were not gained solely for her...”

Jo tilted her head to the side when he fell silent, whispering, “How did you first meet her?”

“Near the end of World War II. I was a doctor with a spare moment, and she was a nurse looking for a doctor to examine the infant found in on of the concentration camps.”

Jo opened her mouth to ask what a child was doing in a place like that, but shut it again and let Henry talk.

“The fires were being put out around us, and I was taking a rest and a short walk to relax. I thought I heard a child crying, and went to investigate it; and when I walked around the pillar, she was just...there.” He gestured with his hands, and Jo smiled as the tea was nearly spilled all over the carpet. He frowned at the cup and brought it back close to him to avoid spilling. “She was beautiful – even with her hair falling down, wearing a coat too big for her, and tired from a long day, she was still beautiful. She held Abe in her arms as if he had been made for them; and he had quieted, content to watch the world around him with innocent eyes.” Henry's arms unconsciously shifted to hold a babe. “She put him in my arms, and to this day I can't recall why – I remember looking at the two of them and thinking they were the most precious thing in the world.”

The Detective felt a soft smile dance across her face as the picture Henry described played out in her mind. She longed to ask why he had called the infant 'Abe', but she hesitated to interrupt him. A movement in her peripheral distracted her, and she turned to see Abe leaning up against the kitchen door from, leisurely drying a glass bowl and listening to Henry's story. When he saw her looking, he smirked and put a finger to his lips before continuing to dry the dish. Jo smiled and turned back to Henry.

He had placed his teacup in its saucer to avoid a mess if he forgot about it again. “I almost left her once, after the war was finished. I loved her, and I knew I would do anything for her – but I also knew that she would age and I would not, and I was terrified of exposing my secret. I left while she slept - left her a letter on the table and fled before she woke. I knew that if I waited or told her in person, that I would never leave...” 

“She awoke when I left, and ran out to catch me. I expected anger, demands for an explanation, even sorrow – but the only question she asked was if I loved her.” He smiled, his eyes glistening. “She didn't care what others thought, never complained that she would age and die while I remained the same – all she cared was that I loved her. And I always did.”


	6. Chapter 6

 

Jo blinked to clear her eyes. Across from her, Henry had straightened and was looking around for something. She heard Abe sigh behind her and stride off to another part of the shop.

 

“What do you want, Henry?”

 

“A picture...”

 

“He wants this.” Abe interrupted, coming back with a simple picture frame in his hands. “And this would be a lot easier to find if you would leave it in one place, Henry!”

 

“Ah, thank you, Abe.” He took the picture and glanced at it before passing it over to Jo. “This is...”

 

She looked at it and smiled. “Abigail?” She nodded at Henry's confirmation, and studied the woman in the picture. Even though he had not described her looks per say, her character shined through the picture. “She's beautiful, Henry.”

 

He nodded and smiled. “Very. Aesthetically _and_ empirically.”

 

She laughed. “Well, now I have no reason not to shoot you for giving me empirical compliments.”

 

“Ah. True enough.”

 

The two sat in silence for a minute before Jo asked another question, “So how did you meet Abe?”

 

Henry stared at her for a second before he grinned, anticipating her reaction. “Abigail and I adopted Abe after he was found in a concentration camp as a babe and entrusted to us.”

 

Her mouth dropped open in shock, and she stared at the Doctor. “Abe was the baby? You adopted him? You're Abe's _father_?” she exclaimed.

 

“Well, what did you expect? That he would somehow keep track of a single, abandoned child in the midst of the chaos after the Holocaust?”

 

“Well, when put like that I suppose it doesn't make much sense...”

 

“Abraham, please...” Henry directed a fondly exasperated smile towards the kitchen door. “Yes, Jo, we adopted him. We were a family from the beginning, no matter how much I shied away from the prospect. Even though it was terrifying at times and still is, I wouldn't trade a second of it for all the world – or even my death.” He smiled. “Although,” he raised his voice a little so Abe could clearly hear him, “I would gladly erase the heart-stopping moments where my seventy-year old son decided he wants to learn how to skateboard off of a tall wall!”

 

“Ha! You're just jealous that you didn't get to do it yourself!”

 

Jo was laughing at the antics of the unlikely family, honoured that they trusted enough to let her in.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

“Remember the case at the Metropolitan Museum of Art?”

 

Jo nodded.

 

“And remember how I didn't arrive at the crime scene, and only went there later because it was the lesser evil?”

 

She smiled a little and nodded again.

 

“Well, that was where I proposed to Abigail. Stepping into the building, for the most part still unchanged.... It was like stepping back into time.”

 

Jo watched him, such a different man without his endless layers of shields and armour to close him off from life – she wondered if anyone had ever pointed out to him the difference between being alive and living.

 

With an effort, Henry pulled himself out of his thoughts to continue his tale. “Do you remember Gloria Carlyle?” Without waiting for her answer, he moved on. “I met her once before, at one of her parties. Abigail and I were in town and came to the museum. It had just started raining out, and she was laughing, pulling me towards the doors – but the museum was closed. It was a closed party and, obviously, we weren't on the list.” He gave a little laugh. “Not that that stopped her for a moment! She picked an important European name at random, and there we were – they daren't turn us away lest we were who we claim, so we were allowed in.”

 

Jo watch the Doctor, a smile lifting her lips as she saw him get into his story, moving his hands to describe things and smiling at the pictures he saw in his mind's eye.

 

“She was having so much fun, and she just pulled me along behind her, content to watch her and lift her up to shine in the light. I was an old man, used to plans and contingency plans – and she was a child looking to have fun, to be 'rash'. She knew that her time wasn't infinite, and she made sure that she made the most of every moment she had. I loved Abigail, but I was scared of either her inevitable death, or her rejection – I needn't have feared of rejection, but habits are hard to break.

 

“While we were at the party, Gloria met us – or met me, I should say. She knew we weren't the 'Vermeers', but she lets us stay. She was just as straightforward as she was at the end, but she wasn't embittered by life yet. Recognizing that Abigail and I were deeply in love but knowing that we weren't married, she wanted to know why I hadn't asked yet. All I could tell her was that I didn't think I was what Abigail deserved. She told me that when in love, you seem to have all the time in the world; but it passes all too quickly. That nothing in life was certain, especially not love – it depends on chance and the courage to take it.” Henry fell silent again as he remembered the party and the regal woman who led it.

 

Curious, Jo had to ask a question. “Did Gloria herself tell you that she never drank?”

 

“Hm? Oh, yes. 'Never drink and you never lose your head.' I had offered her champagne while stalling answering her question of why I hadn't asked yet, and that was what she answered.”

 

He had straightened up in his chair during the story, and Jo leaned forward herself to listen to the tale he told with such quiet strength and emotion.

 

“Abigail was actually the first to notice the odd painting in the gallery – the painting by Fernando Costa – and bring it to my attention, which was useful during the Carlyle case. However, at the time, I thought nothing of it, and Gloria came over to us shortly after to distract Abigail. Before she left the party, Gloria told Abigail that she had someone special.

 

“Abigail and I stayed through the entire party. After, when the tables were being cleaned up, she and I were walking around the room beneath the chandelier. It was there that I finally proposed to her – I had no ring, or anything besides myself and what little courage it took to ask, but she still accepted. But even then, she accepted that she would be gone one day, and I would continue on... Something I knew in my heart, but still refused to acknowledge.”

 

His smile turned bittersweet, and Jo sensed that this portion of the tale was ended.

 

She watched him for a few moments, understanding now what she had said that caused him to suddenly break over two hundred years of silence and tell her his secret. She had stood before him under the guise that she was the wiser and the stronger, and that when he came up against the storm of grief, that he would fall as well – but now she realized that he already had. Many times. His family, friends, even his enemies passed on before him – until finally he was left with only Abe beside him to help hold him up.

 

She looked towards the kitchen door.  Abe had slipped back into the kitchen as his father had fallen silent, and she could see him moving around the kitchen, tunelessly humming as he worked. He wasn't young anymore, and he wouldn't be here forever, she realized. Then who would stand by Henry and help guide him?

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

“I'm just going to go...” Jo gulped the rest of her tea down and set her cup down on the tray while she carefully stood up. “I'll just give you a moment,” she whispered. Wanting to give Henry some space to think and remember without an audience, she wandered from the sitting room into the rest of the shop.

 

As she looked at the collection of antiques filling Abe's shop, she saw them in a new light. Henry came from times where items like these were commonplace – and who's to say that some of this might not actually be his? He might have worked at this desk late into the night, sat in this chair, rocked a child in this cradle, danced to the music on this record – she smiled at the incongruous image of the reserved doctor _dancing_.

 

She idly ran a hand over the pile of records lying beside the record player.  Chopin, Mozart, Handel, Beethoven – the majority of the records were classical pieces, but she also saw an assortment of Christmas carols,  and  some jazz. She assumed the jazz records were Abe's, as Henry seemed more of the sort to listen to an opera or symphony. 

 

Thinking of the case they worked on surrounding the murder of Isaiah Williams and his father's song, she wondered how he came to know about  obscure things like hidden places in saxophone cases, how that jazz was about the feeling instead of the notes and theory... She smiled, remembering how Henry had come into the station exclaiming how he had  _cooked_ the tape to fix it – and how it had, luckily, worked.

 

Finishing a circuit around the room, she stumbled across an upright piano. She lightly fingered the keys, wondering who played. Returning to the back room and Henry via the kitchen, she was surprised to see him carefully filling the teakettle with water at the faucet. He looked up when she entered and offered her a small smile.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Jo shrugged, brushing it aside. “It's fine – you'd do the same.”

 

“Perhaps – but not in nearly the same circumstances.”

 

“True enough.” She frowned at what he was doing. “Did we already finish that entire pot of tea?”

 

“Yes. I find tea is calming – and you wanted something to occupy yourself with.” He set it on the stove and lit the burner.

 

“I see.” She meandered into the kitchen and leaned back against a counter.

 

He turned around to face her, “Did you find anything interesting in the shop?”

 

“Some – it amazes me that furniture can survive as long as some of that stuff. Let alone what exactly can become an antique...”

 

“Anything can become an antique if it survives long enough. A lot of it depends on scarcity, the care given to an item, worth in the eyes of the buyer.... Age does not automatically ascribe worth to an object.”

 

Teasingly, she asked, “And what about you? Are you an antique?”

“Technically, yes – although I fear most would be inclined to disbelieve me.”

 

She laughed. “I can see how they would. Hey,” She straightened up, “I was wondering, who plays the piano?”

 

“All – I mean, we both do. Abe has a varied taste, but I...”

 

“Let me guess:” She grinned, “You're a classicist.”

 

“Definitely. But between Abraham and the case of Isaiah Williams, my opinion has shifted somewhat in relation to jazz – I still do not believe it is a 'classic' in any form, but I can see how others enjoy it.”

 

T he two fell into companionable silence for a few minutes. Henry watched the teakettle as it began to steam, and Jo studied the floor as she tried to figure something out. Finally, she gave up and simply asked her question.

 

“Henry? If you didn't like jazz before the case, and cared for classical pieces more, then how did you know so much about the purpose of the music or the hidden compartment in the saxophone case?”

 

“That was from when Abe was much younger – when we were first introduced to jazz.”

 

“Oh?” Interested, she turned fully towards him – hoping in the back of her mind that this was a lighter anecdote than others before.

 

Deciding she was honestly interested in hearing his story, the doctor continued. “ Abe was nearly twelve at the time. I had been teaching him piano, and he did well. He found it boring,” Henry smiled, “But I was sure that, given time, he would come to understand the importance of classical music and appreciate what I had taught him.

 

“One of his practices was interrupted once by a neighbour – Red Holland – who had injured his hand in a dispute and had wanted it treated before he played his saxophone later that night. It needed stitches, so I left the room to fetch my supplies. Mr. Holland recognized the sheet music that Abe was practicing – a piece from Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat Major – and sympathized with Abe's less than enthusiastic approach to the piece.” Henry smiled. “Mr. Holland was the man who introduced Abe to jazz – a style of music that relies on feeling more than notes or structure. He came back several times afterward to teach Abe, and Abe thrived.” The teakettle boiled, and Henry turned the burner off and set about preparing another pot of tea.

 

“I taught Abraham structure and harmony – the theory of music, but Mr. Holland taught him how to feel, and I think that was more than I ever could have done. Through the years, after Abigail...left, and when dealing with my condition and paranoia, he would often go play his jazz on the piano – pouring out his anger, frustration, sorrow, fear, and everything else in a way that wouldn't hinder those around him. It was a way for him to unburden himself of his own cares while not laying them upon others...” The doctor fell silent.

 

“But...” Jo hesitated, but pushed on, “But that doesn't explain how you knew of the hidden compartment in Pepper's case.”

 

“My apologies. No, Mr. Holland stopped at our apartment one day while Abe was gone, saying he was leaving for Paris for six months and would be unable to teach Abe anymore. But, before he left the room, he took a flask from a compartment within his own case. He compared musicians to Bedouins, saying that everything they ever needed was carried right in the case. I remembered what he said later, when I was thinking about Pepper Evan's saxophone case. Would you like to have your tea in the sitting room, or stay here?”

 

“Um, we can move back in there – sitting is more comfortable for long stories anyway.”

 

“As you wish.” He carefully lifted the tea tray and led the way back to the two chairs.

 

“By the way, where's Abe?”

 

Henry smiled. “I'm sure he's around – it's likely that he went upstairs for the moment.” He poured a cup of tea for Jo and himself and sat back down.

 

S he accepted the cup and took a drink. “So, over two hundred years of living, learning, hiding your secret – did anyone ever recognize you?”

 

“Yes, it was another reason why I moved often.”

 

“Can you tell me about one of them?”

 

Henry thought for a minute, breathing the steam from his tea and taking a sip. “Once,  when Abe was nearly thirteen.” He leaned back in his chair before continuing. “We had been in that area seven years, and I had begun taking precautions to allay any suspicions as to my lack of aging. Abigail wasn't nearly as worried as I; and that was good, for she kept me from crossing the 'fine line between precaution and paranoia'. I was still on edge, but she enabled me to walk freely in public without constant fear of being discovered.

 

“We had taken a walk in a park, Abigail and I; and I was admiring the change of seasons. I've never tired of it – nature's cycle of life, the continual renewal and discovery...” He took a deep breath and continued in his tale. “Abigail had left to fetch Abe from school and I remained to finish my walk through the park. A man was sitting on one of the benches I passed – a veteran of the second World War. His name was Hemecker, and he had been on the beach at Normandy at the same time as I. He had been beside me when I was hit with an artillery shell, and recognized me for the doctor that had been killed.

 

“I attempted to pass it off to him as a misunderstanding, that – while the resemblance might be uncanny – there was no relation. I was frightened, and fled back to our house, where Abigail and I began packing to leave again.” He gestured towards Jo. “That was how I knew that Patricia Abbott wasn't running permanently. While we were packing, I was in a fevered rush, wanting to leave as soon as possible to avoid trouble; but Abigail was calm, and insisted on making sure that everything was packed and that all irreplaceable items were brought as well.” He smiled. “I wonder if Abe still considers that to be the best day of his life...”

 

“What?” While confused at the subject change, a smile danced around the edges of her mouth as she knew it was concerning Abe.

 

“Oh, that was the first time he kissed a girl – I think he said her name was Fawn?” The doctor shrugged. “Nonetheless, considering as we had to leave everything behind again, I wonder if he still holds it in such high regard...”

 

“Hey! Are you talking about me behind my back?”

 

Henry looked toward to door with an overly innocent look on his face. “Abe, please...”

 

The two men stared at each other, Abe trying to figure out what exactly his father was hiding, and Henry playing innocent just to see what Abe would figure out. Jo gave up and started laughing at the two, setting her cup down on the tray before she dropped it. The contest broken, they smiled and joined her.

 


	9. Chapter 9

“I'll have you know that I was the model child – the best Henry's had.”

 

Jo stifled her laughter, but continued to smile. “Oh? Then you have siblings?”

 

“Well, no...”

 

Henry smiled wider at the situation Abe found himself in.

 

“But I'm sure that if I did that I would still be the best.”

 

“I fear for my sanity had that been true, then...” Henry stage-whispered before taking a sip of his tea.

 

“Fine, fine – then don't believe me.” Abe raised his hands in surrender. “I will leave you with the delusion that another child would have behaved better than I.”

 

“Very well.” The doctor laughed as Abe left, muttering about late night calls, and all that he did without complaint.

 

Jo was laughing again, picturing the antics Abe could have gone through when he was younger. “Was he always like this?”

 

Henry nodded. “For the most part – as a young child, he was more...sedate? If you could call it that...  He was still highly energetic, and very curious – and too smart for his own good – but he wasn't as worried. I can't say if he was more or less responsible though...” He added as a teasing afterthought.

 

“Ah, I see – so not much has changed.”

 

“No. Not for a long time.”

 

She frowned at his subdued tone, wondering what memory she had pulled up this time. “What changed?”

 

He absently stirred his tea, lost in thought. The detective considered asking again, but decided to pursue a – hopefully – lighter subject.

 

“What happened to Abigail?” She regretted the question as soon as she asked, seeing how Henry flinched at his wife's name. For a minute, she didn't think he would answer, but then he surprised her again.

 

“She left us.”

 

His words were so quiet, she almost missed them. When she heard them, she thought she had misunderstood – Abigail left him and her son? From Henry's stories, she loved both of them deeply and would never abandon them – but if she had passed away, surely Henry would have said so? She frowned in confusion, so lost in her thoughts that she almost missed the start of the doctor's next sentence.

 

“She had packed up some clothes, blank identification papers, and a single picture of Abe and I - over twenty years together, and my centre disappeared in a single night...” 

 

He took a deep breath before continuing. “I had stayed out the night to help with a medical situation,  and Abe was at school . By morning, my patient was stable;  so I went home to rest, and t o  t alk with Abigail while the house was quiet.

 

“When I walked in the door, I _knew_ something was wrong – the air was too still, and there was just something....missing. Something undefinable  and irreplaceable, but necessary.

 

“Lying on the dining room table, before my place, was an envelope addressed to me. I ignored it and searched the rest of the house, praying and hoping against everything that she was still there.” He set his teacup down and tried to dry his eyes. “She wasn't, and I went back down to the dining room – feeling as though I walked to my execution. It was as if I stepped back in time – stepped back to when I tried to leave her, to save myself heartbreak after the war.”

 

Jo's heart ached for the man sitting across from her, sharing a story that should have been started on his own terms in his own time;  not in the midst of a heated argument that all parties involved later regretted . She watched his hands twist around each other, and longed to reach out and still them – to attempt to comfort him for a hole that would never truly be fixed.

 

“She left me with a letter – and nothing else of her save a select few pictures. She said she had cancer...” He closed his eyes. “There wasn't any hope for her, and she left to spare Abe and I the pain of seeing her waste away to a shadow of what she had been – she wanted to preserve our picture of her as someone strong and beautiful, not as someone too weak to do anything save pass on. But I wouldn't have cared! 

 

“My mind knows she did it to spare us, that she still loved us – but my heart says that she betrayed me.”

 

The doctor opened his eyes, and Jo flinched from the heartbreak and confusion she saw pouring out of them. Suddenly, she realized that he had never spoken of this to anyone –  h e wouldn't have wanted to burden Abe, and wouldn't have trusted anyone else. He had bottled all of this up for so long, that now the dam was broken and it all came pouring out of him.

 

“She died alone, Jo – no one beside her, no one to hold her hand – and I never got to say good bye, not even to tell her I loved her one last time. She left me to raise a son in a world where I was terrified that I would be discovered, worried that Abe would leave or betray me, and constantly being reminded every time I turned to talk to her and she wasn't there that nothing will last forever. She left Abe with nothing of her but memories, and a single sentence in my letter: 'Tell Abe I love him always'. Nothing else, and I could never find her – not even news of her fate. I loved her, Jo, and I always will – but why did she have to leave us? I would have tried anything to save her – why didn't she tell me? She died alone, Jo – she died alone...” 

 

Henry buried his face in his hands and wept. Ignoring the tears on her own face, Jo jumped up and came beside the doctor, pulling him into a hug.  She could faintly hear his apologies and broken questions, and she could feel his sobs shaking him down to the bone. There was nothing she could say that would help; some things, only time could heal – and he still needed more.

 

Trying to comfort the broken man that trusted her, she wondered if there would ever be enough time for him to heal completely.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Jo said nothing, just rubbing soothing circles on Henry's back and letting him cry. Inwardly, she worried how long she would be able to stand like this, but she was determined to let the doctor take his time. In the background, she could hear Abe locking up the shop and turning off the lights in the rest of the house. As his steps drew nearer to the sitting room, the detective couldn't decide whether to pray that Abe wouldn't see his father like this, or to rejoice that maybe he could help her out.

 

“I'm going up to my room and – oh, what's he done this time?” Abe asked as he entered the room.

 

Jo automatically tightened her arms around the doctor when he flinched at Abe's voice, mumbling apologies for secrets kept.

 

“He told you about Mom, didn't he.”

 

When Jo nodded in confirmation, Abe came around behind Henry's seat and began rubbing his shoulders. The detective could feel Henry begin to relax and lean back into Abe's hands. She smiled gratefully up at Abe, but he shrugged and brushed it off.

 

Eventually, Henry stopped shaking again and managed to pull his ragged breathing back under control. Embarrassed, he gently push ed Jo away from him, hastily wiping the tears off his face with trembling hands. Seeing that Henry was mostly recovered, Abe left the room. Jo could hear him filling a glass with water, and opening a bottle of pills of some sort.

 

“Here.” He pushed the glass and the pain killers into Henry's hands and watched as he took them before returning the glass to the kitchen.

 

“I apologize...” He hesitantly met the her eyes. “I do not mean to burden you, Detective.”

 

“Henry. You lost your wife whom you loved deeply, and you haven't stopped to grieve her – you're allowed to show emotion. It shows you're still human.”

 

H enry dropped his eyes, and Jo moved back to her seat, shifting in the uncomfortable silence. 

“Did he ever tell you what really happened on your first case together?” Abe called from the kitchen.

 

“No.” She looked back to the doctor. “What happened?”

 

Henry poured himself another cup of tea and drank it, wincing from his headache and rubbing his eyes. “Well, I didn't leave the subway car.”

 

She blinked at him. “You were...on the car? But no one survived!”

 

He tilted his head toward her in acknowledgment. “That is true, but I don't remain dead.”

 

“So your watch was actually in the car because...” She winced. “Ow.”

 

“That is one way to express it.”

 

She frowned  as she thought of something else . “You said you reappear in water, how does that work?”

 

“I die, and then awake in the nearest large body of water – I really don't know more than that.”

 

She leaned forward in interest. “Are there similarities between the bodies of water, or is it decided by random?”

 

A faint smile began to show on Henry's face as he allowed himself to be distracted. “In my experience, they are all natural bodies of water, and all deeper than I am tall - I must always swim for shore. Currently, my place of reappearance is the East River -”

 

“Wait.” She interrupted his explanation. “The East River?”

 

“Yes. Although, it's technically not a river but a strait -” He broke off as the detective interrupted him again.

 

“The same East River as the one you are frequently found in....sans clothing?”

 

“The very same.”

 

She stared at him and then half-frowned, half-smiled as she realized something. Taking a deep breath, she stated, “They're related, aren't they.”

 

He nodded and offered a smile in return, gently swirling the tea in his cup. “Unfortunately, yes. No, I am not a so mnambulist – I have the unfortunate habit of reappearing after death in the water without  garments . Or anything else.”

 

“Why don't you leave a cache down at the river? Fill it with clothes, ID, a phone...”

 

“There are the tides there. And opportunities for leaving and replenishing a cache in such a public place are rather few.”

 

“That makes sense...” She frowned. “Do I want to know how you knew he was poisoned by aconite?”

 

“Probably not.”

 

“He injected himself with some of the man's blood and identified the poison from the symptoms!” Abe called. “And then commented on how 'ironic' it would be if he stayed dead!”

 

“Hysterical, Henry...”

 

“That's what I said!” Abe came into the sitting room. “This, Detective, is why I am the model child. I'm always ready to leave at all hours, day or night, to go pick up my dad from either river or police station with a set of clothes and collaboration in his excuse – but do I get thanked?” He shrugged and raised his hands in exasperation. “No – I get drafted as an accomplice for assisted suicide. Simply hysterical.”

 

Jo struggled to contain her smile, but at Henry's rueful and surprised face, she started laughing. Henry turned to her,  smiling faintly in bemusement; but she ignored him for the moment.

 

You're not...the model...child, Abe.” She gasped as she caught her breath. “A model child would never complain!”

 

Abe stared at her for a second before turning back to Henry and stating: “She'll be good for you.” With that, he turned and left the room again.

 

Silence reigned in the house after Abe left as Jo tried to figure out what Abe meant, and Henry tried to ignore the meaning. Eventually, Jo turned her attention back to Henry with a grin.

 

“So, now that I know what is wrong with you, what actually happened on the roof of Grand Central Station?”

 

Henry laughed at her reference to her words spoken in Koehler's garage as he had lit her hand on fire to counter the aconite. “You saw correctly.”

 

“You - you actually fell off the roof with Koehler?” At Henry's nod, she sighed and rested her head on her hand. “Even knowing that dying won't kill you -” she frowned at the wording, but continued on, “I don't think I'll ever get used to the idea that you've actually _died_...”

 

“Then don't. It will keep you human.”

 

“As once said by a very wise man,” She agreed.

 

“Who still doesn't know what he's talking about,” He reminded her.

 

She laughed, “Henry, you might  have  be en a terrible drinking partner, but I wouldn't go so far as to say that you didn't know what you were talking about.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

Jo shivered, feeling chilled after sitting still for so long. Noticing, Henry got up and wrapped his discarded blanket around her, and she nodded her thanks to him.

 

Seeking to keep the conversation far away from Abigail, she began another subject. “You mentioned working on the Mary Kelly case, did you work on any of the others?” She carefully arranged the blanket around herself to hold the heat in.

 

Henry shook his head. “No, I did not – thankfully, for it was sickening.”

 

“Sickening? Henry, you're an M.E. You cut up bodies every day for a living – how would it be sickening?”

 

Henry tilted his head to the side, looking at her in incomprehension for a moment. “How could it not be sickening?” He asked. “Yes, I work in a morgue daily dissecting bodies – but they are already dead, and have often been dead for a little while. The Whitechapel murders were gruesome – someone having used what was meant for the good for evil, butchering innocent women in a time where they were especially expected to act genteel and trusting of men, cutting them into pieces while they yet lived -” Henry shuddered. “And I was also not a medical examiner at the time – I still practiced 'real' medicine at the time. The proof that someone so depraved existed turned my stomach; while at the same time, an opportunity to use my years of experience to perhaps help identify the murder fascinated me.

 

“There was too much speculation and confusion surrounding the case, too many contradictions and loose ends – no one truly knew what was going on, and there were no viable leads; nor proof to back any of the theories.”

 

“Well, if they had his name, then why didn't they catch him?”

 

“His name?”

 

“Yes, they called him 'Jack' – why would they do that not knowing who he was?”

 

“That was the name he had apparently given himself in a letter written to the police – although, 'tis unlikely that the killer actually wrote that letter. Prior, he was only known as the Whitechapel murderer.”

 

Jo stared at the doctor as he took another sip of tea. “Then...they had no idea who they were looking for?”

 

“They knew they searched for a man, and likely a doctor – or at least someone with good knowledge of the human body. At the time, they believed him to behave abnormally – but that was unlikely to be the case. They also had witnesses who claimed to have seen the murderer, although many of the accounts were contradictory. And others thought that perhaps there were several murders – unconnected or perhaps in league.

 

“To complicate the already rather entangled knot, many people confessed to the crime -”

 

“ _Confessed_?” Jo interrupted. “Then why did the police not make an arrest?”

 

“Because they cleared the confessors.” Henry sighed. “I'm sure some would have been glad to just arrest one of them – but they were compelled to continue the search for the correct culprit.”

 

Jo shivered. “How did anyone live knowing that someone like that was out there, free?”

 

“How do you live knowing that there are psychopaths out there, murderers out there, that your job survives on the fact that they will always exist?” He stilled his hand before he flung his tea out of the cup. “They went on with life because they had to. Perhaps there were some that were worried; but most either didn't know, or it didn't affect them. And after a while, he was forgotten, or presumed dead – Mary Kelly was, thankfully, his last known victim. He disappeared after.”

 

“And the police just gave up?”

 

“Without evidence linking them to suspects, or any leads, they had no other choice. Perhaps with access to methods used today, they may have had a better chance and results – but likely the murderer would have also become better hidden.”

 

Silence fell in the sitting room as Henry finished his cooling cup of tea and poured another. Jo opened her mouth to ask another question, but Henry continued in what was apparently a continuation of sorts of his thoughts.

 

“The Black Dahlia was much the same.”

 

“Pardon?” The name he mentioned was familiar, but she couldn't connect the two subjects.

 

Henry looked up from his tea. “The Soul Slasher copycat – the second murder was imitating the Black Dahlia.”

 

Recognition flashed over her face. “Ah! Of course.” She frowned again. “There were alike?”

 

“Indeed. Both were gruesome, had long lists of suspects, and many self-confessed culprits, no solid evidence connecting anyone, were publicised, remained unsolved...

 

“And that was the worst thing about the cases – not the brutality and horror of the crime – although that was certainly terrible – but that the killer was never caught; or even found. There was no one to take the blame justly, no closure for the family or those involved...”

 

“Is that why you work so hard to solve our cases, to do your job?”

 

“Yes, in a way. To be able to settle doubts in the family's mind, doubts perhaps about the integrity or soundness of their relation. I attempt to solve the cases so they may know the truth – if their daughter truly jumped from the bridge in despair, then they may know and deal with it. If the husband truly committed suicide in despair over what he had done to the girl, then the matter may be put to rest. But if the opposite is true – if she was pushed and he was drugged – then it is our duty to find who is truly responsible and catch them – to clear their loved ones names. Whomever the culprit is, they deserve to be caught – there is no reason that they should escape.”

 

The detective frowned as Henry began to reference specific events. “Is that why you were so adamant about Vicky's murder, that it wasn't a suicide?”

 

“Yes. It may have been simpler to let it pass as a suicide; but it wasn't right, nor was it true. Not only would it have allowed Alex to get away without consequence, it would have left the parents with the burden that they had apparently missed the trouble that their daughter was going through – constantly second guessing their every interaction with her, searching for something that wasn't there but seeming to find the proof.”

 

“But what about the professor? If you had left it as a suicide, wouldn't that have saved his life?”

 

“Perhaps. But the murderer's goal was to have credit for the book – there was no guarantee that Professor Browning would have allowed another name on the book, perhaps leaving it as a memorial for the woman whom he loved. Perhaps, we still would have two murders disguised as suicides – but no culprit save depression and guilt.

 

“Perhaps it would have saved time and effort; but to my mind, the effort, the death, and the risk was worth finding the true killer.”

 

She gasped, and choked on the drink she was taking. Finally clearing her throat, she looked up at the doctor in confusion. “This whole time you've been talking about catching the killer, and how that murder is sickening – and then you say that the death and the risk to people's lives is perfectly alright – that the ends justify the means?” She demanded, her voice steadily rising.

 

Henry froze and carefully set his cup back in the saucer, setting it aside on the tray. “...No?”

 

“But that's what you just said!”

 

“Pardon, but I said that 'the effort, the death, and the risk was worth finding the killer', not that playing with people's lives was.”

 

She stared at him. “Explain the difference.”

 

“My death is inconsequential as it has no permanent effect, and the risk of exposure to my secret also loses priority when compared to a murderer. I will not be entirely reckless, but disappearing has served me well before, and will again.”

 

“Ah, so you meant that your death was worth – wait.” She frowned again. “You died?”

 


	12. Chapter 12

“Yes, over two hundred times.” He frowned. “Have you forgotten?”

“No, I meant, you died on another case?”

“Oh, that. Yes.”

“When?”

“After I climbed over the side of the bridge to investigate the scene -”

“I told you it was dangerous!” She exclaimed, interrupting again.

“And safely returned to the road after finding the carabiner.” He continued. “However, as I took up my bicycle, I was hit by a truck...” He trailed off.  
She blinked. “So. You climbed over the side of a bridge, safely managed to climb back to the top, and then died in a simple incident of hit and run?”

“To be fair, it can't quite be hit and run if the body ran first – but in answer to your question: yes, that is essentially what happened.”

“Henry, how do you get into these situations...” She shook her head, and then took a drink of her tea. The doctor didn't answer, so she asked another: “How many times have you died on our cases? I know there was the experiment with the aconite, the event on the rooftop, and now there's apparently the night on the bridge as well – are there others, and are they always that often?”

He began counting the instances off on his fingers: “There was the ride on the subway, the experiment with the aconite, I fell off the roof with Koehler, was hit by a truck on the bridge, died in the Frenchman's basement, and then drowned in the cab...” He looked up at the detective, holding up his open hand, “Six times.”

“Well, that's certainly better than what I expected – I was almost expecting you to have died at least once each case; and given your sterling record of self-preservation, it isn't too fantastic.”

He chuckled. “Perhaps not; but against all odds, I do have a sense of self-preservation – it's just not for my life, but for my secret.”

“Well, some might argue that the two should coincide.”

“Entirely correct, but I've never been able to entirely put my secret above and beyond all other priorities. Sometimes, there are things that are so much more important than a life, or even a secret...” He trailed off again.

Seeing his gaze lose focus as he fell back into his memories, Jo pulled him back out, trying to avoid another panic attack or the like. “The Frenchman...Wasn't she supposed to be the third victim of the Soul Slasher copycat?”

“Hmm?” He blinked and pulled his attention back to the present. “Yes, she was.”

Jo frowned. “When were you in her basement?”

Henry sighed. “Now that is a long story -”

“As long as your history?”

Perhaps not that long, but nonetheless...”

“Henry. What happened.” She narrowed her eyes in suspicion, knowing that something had gone terribly wrong if Henry was avoiding the subject, and wanting to right it.

He poured himself another cup of tea, seeking to stall a little more. “Abe had taken her ledger to help us find the killer. However, the case could have been overturned had Bentley's lawyer known that we had stolen the name; so I took it back to the Frenchman with my apologies, and an entreaty to not mention our actions.”

Jo smirked, remembering her phone call to Abe for the Frenchman's address, and his capitulation.

“She agreed, and I began to leave – but then she mentioned it being a good thing that she clearly remembered what the 'ojisan' looked like. That wasn't correct – 'ojisan' means a 'straight, uptight man'; but we had a teenager, a boy, in custody.”

Pushing back to feeling of worry that she knew where this was going, she relaxed back into her seat, smiling as she watched Henry tell the story – half prepared to duck if he ever lost his grip on his teacup.

“Asking her to be sure, she affirmed, and then described the elder Bentley – the father, not the son. I left her shop, intent on telling you immediately, but -” He swallowed as his voice cut off. Taking a deep breath and a drink of tea, he continued. “Bentley was outside. Whether he was waiting for me, or just overheard the end of my conversation and decided to dispose of me, I don't know.” His hands had begun shaking again, and he held his cup tighter to still them. 

“He went into the shop, and after a minute, I followed. He had already....already tied her up. Somehow, I pushed him away from her, and through the back of the show – we fell down the stairs to the basement...” He swallowed, drinking the rest of his tea and pouring another cup. “My back was broken – I was paralyzed and helpless. Benton stood on my back, utterly shattering it. I could hear him stumbling up the stairs, and could hear you clearing the house. There were voices...gunshots...”

She frowned at his hands, surprised they were still able to hold the cup, let alone keep the tea inside it. The doctor was still telling his story, and she was almost glad she had killed Bentley.

“You never came down to the basement – I would have been surprised if I wasn't terrified. I was dying, but not fast enough... 

“He was there. Watching from the sidelines as usual, He saw you come in and entered himself in determination to keep my secret hidden. He didn't need to bring a weapon – I already had one sheathed inside me. He said I could thank him later. He was so cold, so impersonal and callous. Surgical. Psychopathic.”

Henry jumped, startled, when his teacup fell to the floor with a crash. He clenched his shaking hands into fists, pulling them close.

Jo jumped herself when the teacup shattered, even though she had half-expected it, as his sentences had gotten more and more choppy as he went along. Somewhere else in the house, she could hear Abe drop something, although he refrained from coming to investigate. She grabbed some of the napkins lying on the tea tray and began to mop of the tea, at a loss for what else to do. After a moment, she could hear Henry begin talking again, almost as if to himself.

“He cut my throat for no reason of his own, as my secret being revealed would have no influence on him, and then said I should be thankful. He was right.” His gaze abruptly focused and he looked down to the detective. “He could have killed you instead. The Frenchman never saw me – might not have even known I was there. But he could have killed you, saved himself from the possibility of discovery from your quarter – instead, he killed me.”

Finished gathering up the shards of glass and tea-soaked napkins, she placed the mess in the corner of the tea tray. She frowned, having begun to process things of the story beyond the fact that Henry was brutally murdered. “'He'? But you already said you heard gunshots – Bentley was dead.”

“It wasn't Bentley...” He whispered.

“Then who was it?”

“Adam.”

She stared at him, waiting for further explanation, but the doctor had curled in on himself, seeming to have forgotten she was there.

“Henry? Who's Adam?” When the doctor still didn't answer, she touched his arm, repeating her question.

He lifted his head to look at her, his face eerily calm. “He is my stalker.”


	13. Chapter 13

Jo sighed. It seemed that whatever subject or memory she tried to direct Henry to still dredged up fears and pain – did he have any good memories that weren't related to bad ones?

 

She fetched her teacup from where it balanced on the arm of her chair, filled it with fresh tea, and placed it in Henry's hands. Considering his reaction to the greasy food she had eaten, she half-expected him to turn it down, and was pleasantly surprised when he drank it without question. As she returned to her own seat, tucking the blanket back around her, he drained the cup and refilled it.

 

“Yes, Detective, I drank from the cup after you – it wouldn't kill me even if I was not immortal.”

 

“What?” She frowned at the sudden announcement, which seemed as if he had read her mind.

 

He looked up, a smile flitting across his pale face. “Jo. No one shares cups anymore unless they are of relation, and even then rarely – as a doctor, you think I would not do that. But it won't harm me.” He hesitated, but then continued, “And I don't feel like being alone at this time – I don't want you to have to leave to fetch another cup right now...”

 

The confusion cleared up, Jo mused over Henry's account of what happened at the Frenchman's shop. It certainly explained some things: why the killer had left the victim, why the killer was limping, what the 'imagined' noise was in the basement.... She stilled, remembering her words to the doctor after he had apologised for investigating behind her back – acknowledging that she was right and that he shouldn't have done it.

 

“ _You could have been killed – if you had gotten cornered by Mark Bentley the way I was, he could have seriously hurt you.”_

 

How many times did events play out like this – did he do something, and then Fate would drench him in irony? She hesitated to think of how much of his medical knowledge came from experience, and not observation or study. She sighed – it would never do to regret being inconsiderate or harsh in hindsight when one didn't know the entire story at the time.

 

“Henry...” She waited until he lifted his head and acknowledged her before asking her question: “You said that your stalker killed you – that Clark Walker had apparently used a different name while calling you, and then killed you later; did you know that before he attacked you?”

 

Henry frowned in confusion. “Clark Walker? No. Adam did – Clark Walker was just a decoy. A pawn.”

 

“Wait. So you're saying that the man you killed wasn't your stalker?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How do you know? You said he only spoke over the phone – that you had never seen him before! Why are you so certain he wasn't your stalker – and why didn't you tell me this before!”

 

He took a deep breath before answering her almost agitated questions. “I know because he is immortal, like myself – if it had been my stalker whom I killed in my laboratory, then there would have been no body and no case for you to investigate. And as for why didn't I inform you of this before? Jo...” He tilted his head. “Would you have ever believed me?”

 

“I believed you tonight!”

 

A minute shudder passed through his frame. “Indeed, for which I am eternally grateful – but would you have?”

 

She opened her mouth to answer, but then shut it with a frown as she thought about it. “I...I don't know – it was so unplanned and told in the heat of the moment; and you reacted so badly afterward, that it made sense somehow...”

 

“Then, assuming that you at least would truly have believed me and ignoring the fact that the situation would have been _very_ different, please remember my reaction and story when wondering why I did not tell you. The chances are slim that I would have been believed – and I have had quite enough of psychiatric hospitals and doctors.”

 

Jo heaved a sigh and calmed herself back down, knowing that Henry was right – even if her first instinct was to scold him for withholding information during an investigation. A snarky voice in the back of her head that Henry's entire _life_ was based on withholding information – did she think he would have stopped as soon as he met her?

 

“Alright, Henry – tell me about Adam. Everything, this time,” she cautioned. “I want to be able to help you, but I can't without the entire story.”

 

He frowned. “The entire story? From where?”

 

“Well, how about the first time he called? When did you first hear from him?”

 

“I first spoke to him in the morgue, after I informed you that the conductor was poisoned, and that the subway crash was actually a matter for homicide – he was the 'friend' Lucas forwarded to me.”

 

“What did he talk about?”

 

Henry smiled as she employed some of her questioning skills; but was grateful for the guidance, and followed her lead. “He called to tell me that he knew what I was – saying that it was the most exciting moment in his life, and asking how I got off the subway. The next day he hand delivered a picture of Abigail and I that was taken at a party in 1957.” A smile lit up his eyes as he remembered the day.

 

Jo frowned, realising that the stalker had entered the precinct more than once, and was _still_ free.

 

“Did you know he was immortal?”

 

Henry pulled his attention back to the present, taking another sip of tea. “No. I assumed that he was mortal and would die – originally, after he first called, I planned to leave. To pack up everything, disappear, outlive the man, and move on – but Abe pointed out that he couldn't do that anymore...” He frowned at his tea. “I might be able to wait, but he can't anymore.” He sighed, and lifted his head, seeming to forget his thoughts on Abe's mortality – although Jo could see the worn and haunted look in his eyes.

 

“I did come to conclusion to remain, as you may see – besides, the weather would have been terrible elsewhere.”

 

She laughed at his attempt to save face. “Oh, Henry – did you actually use that as your reason?”

 

For a moment, she thought the doctor might be offended, but then his smile widened and he grinned back.

 

“Of course – Abe and I have an agreement: neither of us will mention emotional things – it makes things uncomfortable.” He paused, and then added in an undertone: “Although, the agreement does not always seem to be mutual...”

 

Jo relaxed, seeing that Henry was as close to 'normal' as he ever could be, and not as caught up in his story again. Both needing to know more about this 'Adam', and hesitant to direct the conversation back to a subject that so obviously disturbed him, she wavered in indecision. As she hesitated, Henry continued of his own accord.

 

“When you awoke in the hospital, he called me again to 'make sure I was alright' after having apparently seen me jump from the roof of the Station. It was then that he told me he shared my condition, after I asked him what he wanted and he said that he wanted the same as I did: death.”

 

Jo frowned at what Henry claimed he wanted, but refrained from commenting – filing it away and meaning to return to it later. “When was the next time he contacted you?”

 

“During the investigation into Vicky Helquist's murder – he left a note on my desk, offering 'condolences for my death'.” Henry shuddered. “He always knew what I was doing... Even his note wasn't simple!”

 

“How so?” She asked, lost by the apparent non sequitur.

 

“The paper. The crest was from a hotel that Abigail and I nearly parted at – Adam claimed to be 'researching' me, and would send me relics and references to my past, things that I had forgotten or that no one should have known about...”

 

She slowed her breathing, hoping to calm the doctor's heightened breathing rate before he had another panic attack. It worked; and he began to calm again, distancing himself from the story he told.

 

“Okay, so he's a really creepy guy, that researches you, watches you, and gives you odd gifts – your average stalker, except this one is just as long-lived as you...” She sighed. “And here I had hoped that was over...”

 

Jo frowned. “What about his name? You keep calling him 'Adam', but if he told you he real name, why haven't you researched him in return? With your experience, surely you'd be able to have some in's on finding him...”

 

“Oh, no, Detective – Adam isn't his real name. 'Adam' is the name he gave himself after calling at the end of the Helquist case, saying that it 'felt like he had been here since the beginning'.

 

“That's...disheartening, to say the least...”

 

“Rather.”

 

“Did he call you after every case? Just, to offer his 'condolences' or something?”

 

“No, actually, he didn't. He called after we caught Alex, but then I heard and received nothing from him until Mark Bentley's murders.

 

“He called to say how nostalgic seeing a copy of Mary Kelley's murder must make me – wishing me luck on catching the Ripper that time.”

 

“Then was he in London at the time of the Whitechapel murders too?”

 

“Indeed – and because of his claim, the fact that the murderer was never caught, and that the scene was reproduced in exact detail, I made the assumption that Adam was the murderer, both then and now.”

 

“That makes sense – but when you saw that the mark on the forearm was a star instead of a crescent, you knew...”

 

“Yes.” Henry nodded. “If he had truly been the murderer, then _all_ of the detail would have been exact.”

 

Jo shuddered. “That's just creepy – for what it's worth, I'm glad it wasn't him. To have a brutal murderer like that free and unable to die?” She grimaced.

 

“Yes, it would be quite horrible.”

 

“And that was it until he came into the basement? What about -”

 

Henry interrupted her. “No, he spoke to me again before that.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“When you arrested Ellroy, Adam called from the Mary Kelley crime scene. He saw we missed something that gave the identity of the next murderer to be copied.

 

“Then, of course,” He paused to fill his teacup again, grimacing as he saw that the tea had cooled, “I met him in the Frenchman's basement, and then he called me again after I shared that drink with you.” Henry frowned. “He said that murder was just a part of life – that it was akin to breathing. That it would only take time before I came to the same -”

 

“Stop it right there.” Jo held a hand up, interrupting his downward spiraling thoughts. “I can see what you're thinking – and after Clark Walters, I can almost see how you will try to convince your self of it – but you are _not_ the same. Murder is not just a part of life – it's a part of death. It's an ending. And it's unnatural – as you of all people should know by now. There is a difference between killing for self-defense, and protection; and killing for pleasure, or out of boredom. It would take more time than there is, Henry Morgan, to make you a cold-blooded killer – regardless of the machinations of psychopathic, immortal stalkers...”

 


	14. Chapter 14

Jo sighed. “I'm sorry – you've heard this before. I'll just...” She stood up and carefully balanced the tea tray, making ready to return it to the kitchen, “I'll just go make some more tea.” She slipped out of the sitting room, leaving Henry lost in his thoughts.

 

The Detective filled up the kettle and put it on the stove to boil – but then stared around the kitchen in confusion as she realised she had no idea how Henry would make his tea, and didn't see any teabags lying around. Searching through the cupboards, she found some tins marked 'tea leaves' and placed them beside the tea tray. Knowing tea had to steep, she placed some of the tea leaves into the teapot, just in time as the kettle whistled. Carefully pouring the water over the leaves, she smiled as it began to turn a darker brown.

 

“Jo?”

 

She put the kettle down and turned to Henry, who stood in the doorway with the oddest expression on his face: a mixture of horror, amusement, confusion, and sorrow.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Jo, what are you doing?”

 

“...Making tea?”

 

He stared at her for a moment before a wide grin split his face. A matching smile filled her's as well, although it was tinted with confusion.

 

Coming into the kitchen, he reached into a cupboard and pulled out a strainer of sorts. “You are meant to place the leaves in here, and pour the water over them.” He held it out to her, and she gingerly took it.

 

“Oh. So putting the tea leaves directly into the pot isn't good?”

 

“I'm sure one may do it,” He pulled a simpler tea pot down from a shelf, and strained the tea into it, dumping the leaves into the garbage. “The result would be much the same, except with more solid precipitates in the cup.” He tasted the tea, and nodded. “'Tisn't too bad – here.” He took a tea cup and saucer down from the cupboard to replace the one she had given him. Pouring her a cup of tea, he placed it in her hands. Resettling his cup in its saucer upon the tray, he carried it back to the sitting room.

 

Jo followed him, half-envious, and half-admiring of the way he carried the tray of china without shaking or rattling it. As they sat down in their respective chairs and she pulled her blanket back around herself, she saw Henry gently touch a folded blanket that had been placed in his chair while they were in the kitchen. He sat down and wrapped it around himself; and she smiled into her teacup, knowing that Abe must have put it there.

 

“Henry, who taught you how to make tea?”

 

He choked on the sip of tea he was drinking as he started to laugh. He made an effort to stop in order to clear his throat, but a smile still danced in his eyes. “My mother did.

 

“At the time, it wasn't considered necessary – or very proper, at least to do so correctly – for a boy to learn; but 'twas in self-defense, I believe.”

 

“Oh? Why – did you use dirt to colour it, or something?”

 

“Oh, no – I made it much the way you did just now. Perfectly normal – except the water was cold, and the 'tea leaves' were bits of grass and tree leaves I had picked up from outside.” He grinned at the memory.

 

“I was little more than five at the time, and had wanted to do something for her as she had been ill. I had seen the servants bring a teatray up to her room every morning for breakfast, and thought it simple enough that I could do the same.”

 

“And did you?”

 

“No. I was wise enough to realise – after I dropped a saucer to the floor – that I wouldn't be able to balance the tray. I contented myself with carrying the saucer and cup up and leaving them outside her door before carrying the teapot up. I poured her a cup of tea, and left the pot in the hall outside the door.

 

“To my mother's credit, she did drink it all – it never ceases to amaze me in hindsight all that they put up with daily...”

 

“And she taught you after that?”

 

“No, it was after the third occasion that I served her 'tea'; and also after my brothers tripped over, and broke, the teapot where I had left it in the hall.

 

“Much of the time, I had no need to know how to properly serve and make tea; but when I was alone, it was soothing – it's a part of my mother that no one could take away from me.”

 

“And Abe? How did he learn?”

 

“Trial and error, I expect – although, I only ever seemed to receive the errors...

 

“Abigail and I both taught him on several occasions – usually after an especially disastrous attempt. Thankfully, he did finally learn the art.”

 

Jo smiled, holding out her cup to be refilled. “Well, I'm glad to know I wasn't the worst the first time around then.”

 

“Indeed not.” He carefully refilled both of their cups and then sat back, falling back into thought.

 

The Detective watched him, seeing his eyes darken and lose their joy as he fell into his memories. She couldn't pin down which one exactly prompted this sorrow, but goodness knows he had plenty.

 

Suddenly, he took a deep breath and pulled his focus back to the world around him. “Do you remember the night you and I stood on the sidewalk after solving the murder of Dwight Disiac?”

 

“Yes,” She smiled. “And you told me you were really from Ohio.”

 

“Yes, that case.” He paused. “Adam drove the cab that picked me up.”

 

She opened her mouth to reply, but then shut it and frowned as she truly heard what he had just said.

 

“Adam? As in, your stalker? Immortal, creepy stalker?” Her voice rose a little with each word. When he nodded, she sighed. “I was that close...” She trailed off, and then began to put the pieces together. “You were in the taxi when it went down, weren't you.”

 

“Yes, I was.”

 

She waited for him to continue, but he was silent.

 

“Henry, what really happened in that car?” She asked, lowering and gentling her voice

 

The Doctor gently swirled the tea in his cup around, taking a sip, and she didn't think he was going to answer her; but then he began talking again – his voice flat and almost emotionless.

 

“Adam was driving – I know now that he had murdered the original driver, and had stolen the cab; simply to prove to me that he was immortal, that he shared my condition. He drove off the pier, and shot himself in the head – leaving me locked in the back of the vehicle as it sank into the....” He swallowed. “Into the water. I wasn't able to break free before the taxi filled.”

 

She stared at him, remember the gouges they had seen on the inside of the taxi. “Wow. Instead of us thinking you were the killer, we should have assumed you were the victim...”

 

He chuckled softly, but none of it reached his eyes. “Rather...”

 

“Then by investigating the murder of Raj and Smight, you were actually searching for your own murderer...” She sighed and shook her head, taking another sip of tea. “I think that qualifies as being 'too close to the case'.” There was a pause in the conversation as Jo re-organised her information on Henry's life.

 

“Did he contact you again before you 'told' us about your stalker?”

 

Henry shook his head. “No. I saw that my own tools had been used, had taken them back to my laboratory to test for anything that might lead me to Adam, was followed by you, and was coerced into telling the precinct about my stalker.” Hastily, he added, “And I am extremely grateful that you believed me – even though it wasn't the entire truth.”

 

“And Clark Walker's attack? What was different in your statement?”

 

“I gave my statement exactly as it happened – only leaving out the reason why he had entered the shop: he wanted me to kill him.”

 

“Well, you did -”

 

“But _not_ because he asked!” Henry interrupted. “I did it to protect the person coming down the stairs – I thought he was immortal, that it wouldn't harm him, that he would just reappear somewhere else, that it wasn't really murder, that...” Henry gasped for the breath he hadn't stopped to take as he had spoken, and he fell silent.

 

“Now why don't you state those reasons when you're condemning yourself as a cold-blooded murderer?”

 

Henry looked away, a rueful smile lifting his face.

 

Jo sighed and resisted burying her face in her hands. “Maybe we should have stuck with a quick description and the story you used when you first told us about your stalker... You put up with this guy for this long, and would have continued had I not found you in your creepy basement – what would you have done? Continually lived beneath his shadow? He is just as immortal as you – how was that going to end well?”

 

“I hadn't thought that far – I suppose that I hoped he would lose interest, that he wouldn't truly be immortal, that he would leave everyone else out of his game...” He blinked hard. “I don't know.”

 

“You, Henry, are impossible.” She relaxed back into her chair, finishing her tea in a gulp. She could hear Abe coming back downstairs, now watching his father through the doorway.

 

“So, then you still don't know what your stalker looks like? If Walker wasn't your stalker, then you still haven't seen him -”She broke off as she saw walls slide back up in the Doctor's eyes, saw him shift away from her. “You know what he looks like, don't you?”

 

He opened his mouth to deny it, but then changed his mind and nodded. “Yes. I do.”

 

“...Well?”

 

“No.”

 

“No? What do you mean, 'no'?”

 

“No, I won't tell you.”

 

“Henry Morgan – keeping this secret hasn't done anything good for you so far, why are you still hiding it?”

 

“To shield you. As long as you don't know who he is, and as long as he thinks that you still think him dead by my hand, then you are safe – he has no need to pursue you.”

 

She glared at him. “He's and insane, immortal, psychopath – what's to keep him from going after me later anyway, just for fun? I need to know who it is.”

 

He shook his head. “I couldn't.”

 

“And if he goes after you? If I could spare you another death by shooting him, but don't because I don't know it's him?”

 

“Detective, it won't harm me.”

 

“Henry!”

 

Startled, the Doctor flinched away from the voice in the door, not expecting Abe to have come back down.

 

“Dad, if you know who that man is, and you're not telling us – then I'm not picking you up when she shoots you.”

 

Henry looked between his son and the Detective, trying to find a way out of the corner he found himself in.

 

“No – I can't. If he knows that you know who he is, he'll kill you to protect his secret. I can't risk that – I won't.”

 

“So, you're going to withhold potentially lifesaving information that might give I, or your son, an added edge in case your stalker ever came after us?”

 

“Abraham -”

 

“No, I agree with the Detective – besides, you don't need to deal with everything yourself. It isn't healthy or right.”

 

“And if I lose one of you because I told you who he was? What then?”

 

“Who's going to go after a seventy-year old man, hmm? And I've picked up a few things from you over the years – I'm not helpless. And she's a detective!”

 

Henry turned to look at Jo, but she refused to yield. Finally, she saw something break in his eyes, and he gave in to them.

 

“As you wish. Do you recall the therapist I went to see at Bellevue, a 'Dr. Lewis Farber'?”

 

“Yes...” Jo nodded as she went through the events of the case. “He was the doctor who accessed the files on Walker, right?”

 

Henry nodded. “Indeed. The man you know as Dr. Farber, is the man who has called me as Adam.

 

Utterly blindsided by the doctor's announcement, Jo stared at Henry and then gulped down her tea.

 

“And just when did you have opportunity to meet and recognize him?”

 

Henry turned a fraction towards Abe, who hadn't moved from the door. “He called me after the police left the shop with Walker's body, calling to 'explain what had happened', and to congratulate me on killing a man for the first time. I accused him of insanity, that his instability was the reason for his hiding – but he directed me to look out toward the cab across the street from the window where I stood, and informed me that, 'in his professional opinion, he disagreed'.”

 

Abe sighed and left the room, muttering about immortals and their tendency toward the medical world; and how that when doctor's went bad, they were the worst.

 

Finally regaining control of her tongue, Jo blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “I think we can find a reason so you may never have to return to a session with Ad – Farber.”

 

He stared at her, before laughing. “I thank you – the smallest reprieve is always welcome.”

 

She frowned. “How did a psychopath who killed you twice end up being a _therapist_ trying to _help_ you?” She shook her head in confusion.

 

He shrugged in resignation to the irony abounding in his life. “I believe the key word in that statement is 'psychopath'. But Jo?” He waited until she looked up at him, listening. “Gramercy. That you listened, and believed me without any proof, means the world – thank you.”

 

She waved him off. “You're welcome – but it was a matter of self-preservation.” She grinned. “Without you, I'd close less cases, so...”

 

“Oh, I see!” He teased her in return, “Your only motive was your own ambition – I'm hurt, Detective!”

 

She laughed at the wounded expression he wore, and was relieved when he joined in.

 


	15. Chapter 15

“You need to take a vacation, Henry – go somewhere without having to worry about everything.”

 

He tilted his head in agreement. “But there shall be no rest for the weary, I fear – perhaps someday, when I must leave again.”

 

“Leave?”

 

“Yes, Jo. I do not age – it would be noticeable after a while, I'm sure.”

 

“Oh. I see.” She poured some more tea into her cup, noticing that it was almost too cold to drink. “And then what?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Then what happens, in your story?”

 

Henry shrugged. “That is my history, all that has formed me through the years.” He took a sip of tea and grimaced at the cold, slimy taste, setting it aside on the tray. “Do you have any questions that I may answer?”

 

She thought about it, knowing that neither of them would be inclined to either ask or answer for a while, and determined to learn all she could about her partner.

 

“Well, you said that you got your clothes tailored at that one Italian's place – Arturo? - and you must have many duplicates of the same outfit for all of the times it disappears, so how do you afford that?”

 

“The advantage of a life many lives long in many places – and much experience.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes. In one 'life', I might invest in something, or simply save from my wages. When I 'die' and move on, I could place what I have earned in a trust fund, or a bank for future use. Furniture, instruments, or clothes that have survived through my life, I am able to sell as antiques now.” He shrugged. “It accumulates with careful watching, but none of it is available to me all at once – it is spread out in increments so as to last as long as I need it.”

 

“Wow.” She took a deep breath. “No wonder you can dress so well on your salary.”

 

“Indeed...” He reached out for some tea, but paused as he remembered that it was no longer edible. He stood up to prepare some more, but Abe stopped him at the door and took the tray from him, waving the Doctor back to his seat.

 

“Go back and talk with the Detective – it's long past due anyway.” He disappeared into the kitchen, and seconds later could be heard muttering about how they were insane to have tried to drink that stuff.

 

Henry and Jo shared a smile, and Jo thankfully set her cup aside to wait for more tea.

 

“I've got another question for you: Adam told you when he called after Walker attacked you that you had killed someone for the first time in two centuries – was that true?” She thought about it and frowned. “But it couldn't be right – you said that you pushed Koehler off the roof, that definitely would have killed him.”

 

“And it is also true that I went into war, and death is a certainty there – even for medics.” Henry shook his head. “I cannot claim to have insight on what goes on in that man's head – thankfully. Perhaps he meant that I killed him with my own hands – that I was the force behind the blow.” He shrugged, trying to look as if he didn't care. “I do not know – nor do I care to. He has intruded upon my mind often enough as it is.”

 

“Alright! Alright, Henry, it's fine.” She could hear the tension growing in his voice, and jumped to stave off the explosion before it happened. “Okay, a change of subject: I've got _another_ question for you.”

 

“Oh?” He looked at her, half in amusement and half with wariness. “And should I ask what it is?”

 

“Henry!” She laughed. “It's not that bad – just because every memory you have is connected to something terrible, that isn't my fault.”

 

He smiled. “Fortunately, it is not.”

 

“My question: you've mentioned several times being a doctor – a 'real' doctor. Why did you stop? You sounded as if you had fun, and I know you would have been good at it – so why the switch to professions centred on death?”

 

Henry thought about her question, looking to the door of the sitting room when Abe reappeared with the finished tea.

 

“Yes, please, ask him that.” Abe set the tray down on the table and poured a cup for Henry and Jo, handing them out. Leaving the sitting room again, he patted his dad's shoulder. “And you, listen to what she says.”

 

Henry sighed. “Yes, of course – why would I not?”

 

Abe didn't answer, so Jo turned back to the Doctor expectantly, still waiting for the answer to her question.

 

He sighed, forgoing stalling any longer. “When I became tired of living, Jo. That's when I gave up being a physician.”

 

She stared at him for a moment before sighing. “Henry? Stop having depressing memories.”

 

He gave a small smile at her complaint, drinking his tea. “The next time I become immortal, I shall be certain to keep your orders in mind when I choose my friends and profession – perhaps then I would have become better at protecting myself from people had I done so.”

 

She frowned at him. “Protecting yourself from people – isolating yourself?”

 

He nodded. “If becoming connected with people will only cause heartbreak later, than why should it be allowed?”

 

“Because that's part of life – to do things even though they might hurt. Life hurts, Henry, that's what makes it beautiful.”

 

“Beautiful yes – but, for everyone else, it ends. There is a point where others do not have to go on – I am not granted that luxury.”

 

She took a gulp of tea, gasping as it scalded her mouth. Why did she always manage to open such cans of worms with her questions?

 

“Okay.” She took a deep breath and started over. “Why did you stop being a doctor? What good would becoming an M.E., or a gravedigger, accomplish besides reminding you of what you could never have?”

 

“To study death – to learn all I could about it. Perhaps to even find a way to cure my condition.

 

“As a physician, I learned and worked to save life – to prolong it. Of course, I knew a myriad of ways to die – both from learning to prevent it and from personal experience – but how to learn more, perhaps learn a way that would permanently kill even me.”

 

“So, you work with the dead so you might find a way to die?” She shook her head. “Why?”

 

“I was – am – tired. I live, but see hundreds around me dying. Any friends that I might gain, I know they will leave me – either by choice, or by death; they'll never stay.” He gestured towards the kitchen. “My own son now looks older than me, and I will likely outlive him – how -” he broke off with a choked sob, taking a sip of tea.

 

“I'm tired of being alone, of always seeing those I love leave me.”

 

He took a deep breath, holding it for a moment, and she could almost physically see him pulling a shield around himself – both to hold others out, and to hold himself in.

 

She grimaced. “A student of death... But how do you study it? I mean, how do you study it in relation to you?”

 

Something lit up in his eyes; and she mentally groaned, knowing that he was switching over to being a professor – to becoming captivated in whatever he spoke about. Some things – death for one! - should never inspire that level of excitement and interest in good men. Ever.

 

“Well, they often say experience is the best teacher...” He abruptly got up from his chair, keeping the blanket wrapped around him, and went over to the rug which she knew covered the trap door to the 'laboratory'.

 

'Laboratory' was certainly a good name for it, as all it needed was some red, beady eyes; some hanging chains; and some smoke to make it the perfect mad scientist's lab. She smiled at the absurd turn her thoughts had taken, waiting for Henry to reemerge from the basement.

 

Soon, she could hear him coming back up the steps, and he dropped the trapdoor back in place. Returning to his seat, he held an old, brown book out to her. She took it, handling it carefully, as if it would fall to dust if she touched it.

 

Sitting down and taking his cup of tea up again, he waved a hand towards the book. “That is how I study death in relation to my condition.”

 

Opening the book, she began to flip through the pages. She didn't know what to expect, or even how to interpret what she was looking at. On each page was a rough sketch of a human body, surrounding by notes and numbers directed at specific areas. As she continued to glance at the pages, she was saddened, horrified, and even a little fascinated (although she squashed the latter) as she realised that these must be Henry's deaths through the years – or at least his deaths since he began keeping track, whenever that had begun.

 

Once she drew the conclusion that these were death, and not random sketches surrounded by notes, she could see the scenes – how the arrows indicated wounds, fatal and superficial. On the bottom corner of each page was often a set of numbers – times. Some covered a longer period, and some were short – but all were close. At the top, sometimes scratched out multiple times, were numbers going up as high as three hundred, and some were repeated. Reaching the end of the book – journal – she looked up to meet Henry's eyes.

 

“What are the numbers over the wounds for?”

 

“Level of pain.”

 

“Oh.” She carefully shut the book, resisting the urge to throw it far away from her – as if that would erase the deaths that the Doctor had suffered. She handed it back to him. “And what purpose does that book serve?” She asked, her voice flat.

 

“Well, I record time of deaths, times of reappearances, damage done – and then try to connect common thread between all of the events in an attempt to learn more about my condition beyond the fact that I cannot age, nor remain dead. Sometimes, I think I've found something and will follow the trail – but nothing has uncovered more as of yet.”

 

“...Henry, before our first case – when you were the suspect – you said that you hadn't experimented with aconite in a while.” She took a deep breath. “Have you purposely killed yourself to 'study death'?”

 

“Yes. 'Tis easier to study something if one controls all of the variables.”

 

“Henry...”

 

He frowned as her voice came out slightly strangled.

 

She took a deep breath and composed herself, mumbling that the motive for ninety-percent of his deaths must have been stupidity. “Henry, why do you want to die?”

 

He took a breath to answer her, but then changed his mind. She wanted the truth – not what he told himself to drown out his sorrow and doubt.

 

“You know what I think, Henry?” She waited for him to look up, but he was still stirring his tea carefully – although, she knew he was listening. “I don't think you really want to die. Maybe you did, at one point; but I think something changed. You won't let yourself admit it, maybe afraid that your search for death is a sign of loyalty to those you have lost; but deep inside, you know. You still want to live, Henry, even for all of your recklessness and study.”

 

He finally looked up. “But then what is the point of living if everything else is so fleeting?”

 

She sighed, knowing that he had likely asked this question often, and had heard many answers. “It's just living. It's the memories – they say people are never truly dead until they're forgotten, so if that's true, those you love will live on forever.

 

“Henry, you'll never be alone. Sure, Abe will die, and I will – but you still won't be alone. You'll always find someone else, and there will always be someone to believe you and support you. We aren't made to be alone, Henry – so trust me: you won't be.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

Henry tilted his head, acknowledging her – but she could tell he didn't entirely accept what she said.

 

Abruptly, he finished he tea and stood up, folding the blanket and laying it aside. “If you'll pardon me, Detective, I'll just return this book.” He held up the journal.

 

She poured herself another cup of tea, watching Henry vanish into the basement, shutting the door behind him. Sighing, she leaned back into the chair, thinking about all she had learned about Henry that night – all that he had shared. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he was simply an eccentric M.E. with no self-preservation; and now he was an immortal who had no need of self-preservation. She shook her head.

 

Although, he still needed to excersise it more often, regardless of death's lack of effect... If not for his sake, then at least for the sake of the sanity of the mortals around him.

 

And how did Abe deal with it? How was he able to watch his father essentially try to commit suicide – how could he _help_ Henry? She frowned, laying her own blanket aside. Knowing Henry would be unlikely to reappear for a while, that he had hidden in his lab to block himself off from friends and emotions, she got up to look for Abe, taking the tea tray with her.

 

He looked up when she entered the kitchen. When she set the tray down, he took Henry's cup and refilled it, using it for himself; as if knowing she wanted to talk to him now.

 

Picking up her own cup again, she jumped into the conversation. “Abe, why do you help Henry? Why do you help him find a way to die instead of discouraging it?”

 

“I? Help him die? Only so long as I know he'll come back. He's being a fool, chasing death – he should be living his life to the full.”

 

“Then why did you disappear when we were talking – you knew where it was going -”

 

“And I told him to listen to you.” He interrupted. “Apparently, he won't listen to his own son – maybe you'll be able to knock some sense into him.”

 

She smiled a little and took a drink of tea, leaning back against the counter. “So, I take it that this conversation has been touched on before.”

 

He looked at her. “No. I kept it a secret that I don't want my dad to die – that I think he's being an idiot focusing most of his talents towards 'curing' his condition instead of helping others. Of course it's come up!”

 

She laughed. “Ah, I see. But it gets too 'emotionally awkward' and so he avoids it...”

 

“Right.” He refilled the teacup.

 

“So, what about you? You're not immortal,” She grinned at his sigh and mumbled 'I wish', and continued. “What do you do now?”

 

“Make sure he doesn't get himself killed! Well, generally speaking at least...” He shrugged. “I put I my two bits worth into his decisions, push him out of his walls, try to keep him out of jail, drag him out of his basement...”

 

“I get the picture. Basically, you father him.”

 

He ignored her observation, looking away.

 

She let it go, not being able and not wanting to imagine what it would be like to outlive one's father entirely through old age – knowing that he would continue long after you did. Curiosity finally got the best of her again, and she leaned over into his view.

 

“Is there a second side to his story? What was it like having him as a father?”

 

He rolled his eyes. “Heart-warming, heart-breaking, and everything in between.”

 

“So, normal?”

 

“Only if you define normal as getting to have snowball fights with your dad when you're forty, but knowing that he won't have anyone else to play the game with when you're gone. If you define it as watching him shield you from every pain in the world, but knowing that he's shattering inside. If you define it as not being able to call him by the title he earned and lived for, watching as time switched your places. If you define it as knowing that he won't let anyone else close to him by choice, and that he will be left alone soon. If you grip that cup any tighter, it'll break.” He took a sip of his tea, watching her.

 

She forced herself to loosen her fingers, to ignore the ache in her chest over the cruelty Chance wrecked in Henry's life. Abe had spoken with a calm, slightly sarcastic, tone – but she could hear the nights spent wringing hands with worry over Henry's safety; tears shed in the dark about what would happen later; the love Abe felt for his father behind his voice and words.

 

She could hear Abe talking again, and pulled herself out of her thoughts to listen.

 

“He was wrong about Mom.” He forestalled her noise of confusion, and continued. “He said that she left me nothing – that she never told me goodbye, only left me an 'I love you' through my dad. Who, by the way, did a horrible job telling me, as he didn't even mention the letter itself for several years afterward.

 

“But she left me a letter too – left it inside my pillow like she normally did.

 

“Whenever I left to go somewhere – whether a day at school, a sleepover, war, or anything else that would take me away from home for several hours – she would always put a letter inside my pillowcase. I don't think Henry ever knew – if he did, I'm surprised he didn't check it when she left.”

 

He paused, and Jo refilled her cup, never taking her eyes off him. He never seemed to open up; and even now, he still had a light tone in his voice – but his eyes were serious, and she knew there was a point to this story. A reason he was telling her, of all people, at this moment.

 

“I got home the next day; Henry was still sitting at the dining room table. The letter had been tucked away into his coat, and he seemed to be fine. When he looked at me and told me Mom was gone, his eyes were...dead, for lack of a better word. He was broken – but he wasn't willing to turn totally away from me, he was struggling to hang on.

 

“I couldn't believe it at first, but she wasn't in the house – and she always greeted me when I came home. And Dad wouldn't have joked about something like that. When I went up to my room, I had the crazy idea that maybe she had left me a letter – just one more time. I forced myself to check, and she had.

 

“The letter began like all the others: 'hello, Abraham. Glad you're safe. Where did you go. Did you have fun. How was your time. Did you learn anything...”

 

He waved his hand dismissively, and Jo laughed.

 

“I'd always mocked it before, always told her that she knew where I was going, and of _course_ I had fun – but at that moment, it was as if they were the words of an angel.

 

“Soon, her letter changed. Instead of ending with teasing and threatening me with no supper unless I cleaned my room so she didn't have to break her ankle delivering my letter, she told me she was leaving – that she was ill, and wouldn't be able to make it through this time. I could almost see her writing the letter, smiling through her tears as she wrote that Henry had a letter as well but, 'being the fool that he is, your father won't tell you anything that's in it 'til long after I'm gone – don't you let him mope for the rest of your life, Abraham Morgan!'” He smiled. “Henry always hated it when we would gang up on him – but we never stopped.” He took a moment to refill his own cup before continuing.

 

“Being the selfless soul that she was, she decided to leave and let Henry be knocked out of his depression eventually, instead of burdening him forever with the memories of her wasting away and him being unable to help her.

 

“She told me to take care of him, to make sure he didn't disappear and lock himself away. She knew that her leaving would be hard on him, and I can't imagine how many times she turned back in the doorway and on the street – but she left him to me, and trusted that I would take care of him for her.

 

“Henry's regret is that he wasn't there at her end. My regret is that I won't be able to keep my promise forever.”

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

She stared at him for a moment, before finishing off her tea with a gulp. “I really need something stronger for this...”

 

Hearing her, Abe chuckled and turned away to look in one of the cabinets. Not finding what he was looking for, he left the room, eventually returning with two wine glasses and a bottle of red wine.

 

She smiled. “That will do nicely – as long as it isn't an inconvenience?”

 

“Not at all, Detective – but only drink a little. You still need to drive home afterward – and it's almost time for work again.

 

Surprised, she took the glass he offered her, and looked at the clock. “Wow. I had no idea it was so late – or early.”

 

“Well, you came in after one this morning – how fast did you think it was going to be?”

 

She shrugged, sipping the wine, the tea forgotten to the side. “Well, he is a very captivating story teller...”

 

“Yeah – the truth tends to have that effect.”

 

The minutes ticked by as they stood together in the kitchen, the silence somewhat comforting. Something clattered below them, and Abe sighed. Jo looked at the older – younger – man, reevaluating him in relation to Henry.

 

“And you? When did you first hear his story?”

 

“A _long_ time ago.”

 

*-*-*-*

_c. 1955_

 

Abe held his mother's hand, swinging the picnic basket with the other.

 

“Abraham. Stop that - you'll bruise the apples.” She reached down to still the basket, gently scolding the boy.

 

They were standing beside a bus-stop, waiting for Henry. The family had planned to take the day off and spend the day in the park, enjoying the return of spring; but Henry had been called to the hospital for an emergency. Abigail had told the Doctor where to meet them at, and now she waited with their son for Henry to show up.

 

“Mother, how much longer?”

 

“As long as it takes. I know he'll be here soon.”

 

Abe sighed. “And that's what you said before too.... Can I-”

 

“May I...”

 

He rolled his eyes. “Mother, may I sit down? Please?” He tugged lightly in the direction of the bench. “My legs are tired.”

 

She sighed, relenting. “Very well – but sit still! There'll be none of your wiggling, young man.”

 

He laughed, and she hugged him tight. Sitting down on the bench, they pushed the basket behind their feet, safe from wind and passerby.

 

Abe sighed again, loudly; frowning when his mother tapped his leg in warning. The time seemed to pass in eternal increments, and he prayed to whoever wound the clock of earth to fix it. Utterly bored, he slumped back in the bench, and let his eyes wander across the bustle in the street before them.

 

As he counted the cars passing and the number of people wearing black coats (or was that the other way around...), he heard the bells chime the hour in a nearby church. Counting the dongs, he saw that no one else on the street seemed to notice the noise.

 

Looking down the street, Abe could see the bus coming by, making its stops right on time. As he watched the bus, watched the driver's hands move and he controlled the vehicle, he would see a man almost running in their direction up the street. The child wondered why he was in a hurry, and looked the opposite way down the street for his father, who still hadn't shown up. Looking back, he saw the man check the time on a silver pocket watch, and then grinned as he realised that Henry had finally appeared.

 

Brightening up immediately, he turned with a grin to his mother to tell her; but when he saw her looking down at him with a small smile, he assumed that she had already seen Henry. Vibrating with excitement, he tried not to shift in place too much. He knew that soon they would be at the park, and his father would run with him all day and he could move as much as he liked then.

 

Abe reached beneath the bench to pull out the basket. He saw Henry turn to cross the street and knew they would be leaving soon.

 

“Abraham, what are you doing?” Abigail asked, bemused. “You may not start eating until your – Abraham!”

 

Abe was running down the street, having dropped the basket to the ground when he jumped up. He had seen his father cross the road, seen the bus coming...

 

“Abraham!” Abigail called after him, not knowing what was going on. There was a shout, the noise of suddenly applied brakes – and then the screaming started. Just one word, over and over, as fast as her son could drag in air – he kept screaming for his daddy. And she knew who had been in the path of the bus.

 

Finally catching up with her son, she grabbed his wrist, pulled the screaming, flailing boy back against her.

 

“Abraham. Abraham! Calm down – it's all right! Please, come here.” Keeping tight hold to his hand, she ran a soothing hand through his hair repeatedly, grounding him somewhat from the scene that kept replaying in his head.

 

The boy kept pulling away from her, his eyes fixated on the dark form that lay crumpled on the street in front of the bus. She could still see movement, and knew Henry wasn't dead yet – but she also knew that he soon would be, and that there was no point trying to save him.

 

Everyone on the street heard Abe, and she knew that another life had been ended – they would have to move again. Leaving the basket, she pulled her son away, heading to the next place she knew Henry would be.

 

Once they were out of sight of the street, Abe stopped struggling; instead clinging to her hand even as he looked over the place they were walking through, trying to find out where they were going. He couldn't stop crying, and she gave him an extra handkerchief after his became useless. Stopping at a house, she quickly borrowed a blanket before continuing.

 

Abe pressed close to his mother, the path they were taking superimposed with the image of his father being crushed against the front of the bus, and crumpling to the ground, with the sound of squealing brakes and the heavy thud – he gave up and used his sleeve to wipe his face, dropping the second handkerchief.

 

He was frightened. He didn't recognise where they were or where they were going, and his mother wasn't explaining anything – why did she need a blanket, and where were they going? She was a nurse, why didn't she try to save him? And now he was dead forever.

 

He started crying again, struggling to breathe around the sobs that shook him.

 

His father was dead. No more snowball fights, races, chess games, tree climbing, early mornings – nothing! He could never hug him again or tell him he loved him. Could never help Mom make sure that he took care of himself. Could never learn to drive, or do anything else that boys do with their dads....

 

Abigail finally stopped, looking out across the water. Not seeing Henry, she laid the blanket down on the ground, kneeling on it. Taking a deep breath, she pulled her son to her; finally taking the time to calm him down and explain to him.

 

Abe clung to her, blinking his eyes to see where they had stopped. When he saw the deep water before them, his eyes widened, and he tightened his hold.

 

“No, Mama – please don't. Don't die. Don't leave me. Please, Mama, don't. I need you. I'm scared. Don't die, please. Mama, don't. Stay with me.” He felt her pull away, and his voice raised in fear.

 

She pulled away a little in confusion. Why would he think she was going to die?

 

“Abraham, I'm not going to die.”

 

His pleading choked off, but he didn't look up.

 

“Abraham...” She sighed, at a loss for what to do. He had seen Henry die, and knew enough from his father's books and such that he hadn't survived. He was old enough to know what death was, but how would he handle Henry's condition? Her eyes searched the water again, looking for her husband's reappearance.

 

“Abe, he'll be back – he'll be fine.”

 

He jerked away from her, putting as much distance between them as possible.

 

“No! He's not! He's gone!”

 

“Abraham, listen -”

 

“No! Mama, he's gone! He's never coming back and I miss -” Abe's voice dissolved into tears again; and she pulled him close, praying that Henry would reappear soon.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter. About halfway through the story, I decided to merge it with canon and write a sequel; so this chapter leaves off the night before the end of the winter hiatus - 1x12.

_Present Day_

 

“I was about ten when I saw him die while meeting us for a picnic after work – he had been late and wasn't looking, and the bus couldn't stop in time. Mom took me down to the water, but I thought she was going to drown herself – and then she kept talking about him being fine and coming back...”

 

Jo watched the red liquid in Abe's glass shake. His story was simple, but she could read between the lines; see the terrified, broken, and confused child that just had his world ripped apart – and then has to see the last member of his family apparently going crazy. She winced. That couldn't have gone well...

 

“Dad came up from the water behind me, taking the blanket that Mom had snagged for him along the way. He carried me home, but I wouldn't believe he was real. When we got home, I locked myself in my room and refused to see anyone, even for food.

 

“Looking back, I can't imagine how much that must have hurt him – how terrified he must have been that he had just lost the most precious thing in the world, and that I would hate or fear him. I know Mom was worried – she wouldn't stop knocking on my door!” He rolled his eyes.

 

“And Henry? What did he do?”

 

“After the first day? He left me alone for the week. After that, he must have gotten tired of the uncertainty, because he climbed in my window.”

 

“He climbed in your window?” The detective grinned.

 

“Yeah. Climbed in, grabbed me, and hugged me until I stopped screaming and struggling and hugged him back.”

 

Jo rolled her eyes this time. “Model child again?”

 

“Of course! Anyone else would have pushed him out the window.”

 

She laughed. “Ah. I see the difference now.”

 

“Good.” He finished his wine, setting it down on the counter with suddenly shaking fingers.

 

“...Abe?”

 

“I'm always terrified that each time will be the last – that this time will be the one where I'm left on the river bank, waiting for a ghost. He came back that time, letting me know that I would never be alone, and he's come back every other time – but what if he doesn't.”

 

Jo strained to hear the low words, leaning in towards the shop owner.

 

“I mean, sure! He's immortal, he bounces back from anything, he is in perfect shape – but he's alone, and is trying to give it all away.

 

“When I go – because I will, no matter how much he is determined to ignore it – he's going to be alone again, but I won't pop back up in any nearby body of water. I'll hang on as long as I can – but I don't have forever like he does.”

 

She set her own glass aside and gently touched his arm. “Abe? You're not alone – you're never alone. Maybe the argument was a mistake, maybe just a fickle thing of chance that happened to turn out right; but now I know about him, and I will be here for him. He – and you – can depend on me for anything, and I will never abandon you. I will never leave you alone.” She poured ever scrap of truth, sorrow, belief, and strength into her voice, willing the elder man to believe her – to stop worrying and mourning the future.

 

He looked at her, searching her face. She didn't know what he was looking for, and left everything open, letting him look almost as deep as her soul if he could.

 

“Do you mean that? Are you willing to put up with him and his broken, childish ways? To come running at all hours of the day and night when he's gotten himself killed? To worry yourself sick when he traps himself, or dies slowly without being able to heal himself or contact you? To forcibly pull him out of his brooding, and to force him to live – to face the realities he hides from? To protect him from both himself and others, to guard him? To protect yourself from him? Would you really do that for a weird and creepy man that you've only just met?”

 

“That's what friends are for – and Henry deserves it.” Her voice rang of determination. “He's spent too long alone, being punished for something that wasn't his fault or choice.”

 

He studied her for a moment longer, and then something in his eyes relaxed in relief. Blinking too-bright eyes, he told her: “For all of that? You're not a friend. To want to, and to do what is needed for Henry, you're family.”

 

*-*-*-*

 

“Wow...that's, um...” Speechless, she looked away, slightly apprehensive about what she had just promised to do, but not willing to back out for all of the world.

 

Abe smiled at her for a moment, before snapping back to his normal, sarcastic self. “Well, now that that's over and done with...”

 

She laughed, and the tension from the situation diffused almost instantly.

 

“Out of curiosity, did you ever get to go on that picnic?”

 

“Kind of. After Mom left, and he was convinced I would too, I drove him back to where it had taken place, and took him on a walk over the path she took. It took him awhile to get it, but when he saw the water, he understood – and he knew that I wasn't going to leave him, even if I had to climb in a window.” He rolled his eyes and shrugged. “We had a picnic there, and he stopped trying to chase me away as much. But that was nearly ten years later, so...”

 

“Talk about a delayed payback...”

 

There was another crash downstairs, a bigger one, and then Henry called up that he was fine, ignorant of the glare his son was directing at the trap door.

 

“Well, if you want to help, get him to back to work.”

 

“But he's still on mandatory -”

 

“No. He's not. Currently he's...” Abe thought about it for a moment, “Hiding. He won't go back because he's convinced that Adam has won.”

 

Jo rolled her eyes. “Is he planning on coming back any time soon – I know Lucas is actually counting the hours since he left work.” Seeing his confusion, she clarified, “Lucas Wahl – the assistant M.E. in his office.”

 

Abe shrugged, turning to wash the tea and wine dishes. “Do I look like I can read Henry's mind? For all I know, he's decided that detecting animals is a better use of his talents.”

 

She grinning. “I'm sure it's not that bad.” She sighed and looked towards the trap door. “Do you think he's ready?”

 

“I don't care – he needs to get out of my shop, even if just for one day.”

 

She lightly shoved him. “Be nice – he killed a guy.”

 

“Yeah? And I've killed him a bunch of times, and I don't get three weeks off from work!” He turned to her. “I think he's ready – even if he doesn't know it yet. He just needs a reason to get started again.”

 

Jo began to reply, but her phone rang. Squinting at the display, she frowned. “Sorry, I've got to take this...” Stepping away for a moment, she took the call, talking rapidly with the person on the other end.

 

“Detective Martinez...Yes, I got some sleep...No, you didn't wake me...What makes you say that – of course I'm home!...What did you call about....Oh...Where?” She scribbled the address down on a piece of paper. “Okay, thanks...Yeah, I'll be there soon.”

 

Hanging up, she sighed and turned back to Abe. “Sorry, I've got to go. They found a body, so...”

 

He waved her off. “Yeah, fine – the day has started again. See you later!”

 

“Bye!” She called back. Stopping by the trap door, she carefully lifted it, shouting down her good-bye to Henry, who didn't hear her. Shaking her head and closing the door again, she straightened up and headed out the front of the shop.

 

“Hey, Jo!”

 

She turned back to Abe, a hand on the door. “Yes?”

 

“In all seriousness, thanks for what you've done. Thanks for believing him, and for bringing him home – he probably won't say as much, at least not for a while, but he means the same. Just saying, you didn't have to. Thanks.”

 

She smiled. “No, Abe. Thank you for letting me in.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a oneshot. As people requested a continuation, I did so, and ended up writing the longest story I did. Which, given it was my second time writing fanfiction?
> 
> This story also became my basis for the entire Forever...mythos I've created. It starts with Henry and Jo, but I later adopted Adam too.


End file.
